Here’s a New Year’s resolution: No more crying customer service calls.
I really need to give these up.
I don’t cry when it’s appropriate, like at a sad movie or reading a sad book, or even at a funeral.
But put me on the phone with a customer service rep, and I’ll start blubbering like you’ve just told me I have three months to live.
The conversation, from my end, usually goes something like this:
“Really. So there’s nothing you can do. They don’t give you the authority to make any exceptions? Even though I’ve been a good, on-time-paying customer, as you just noted, for all these years? No? [*voice crack*] You can’t give me the benefit of the doubt? Even when I provide you with a reference number for my earlier inquiry? …I’m just asking for some common courtesy. OK, then can I please speak with a supervisor or someone who won’t be so by the book?…No, your job isn’t to be by the book, your job is to be – *stifled sob* – a human being!”
What makes me cry?
It isn’t really the person’s infuriating thick-headedness. Or even the letdown that comes from finally being connected with a total turd burglar after suffering through so much waiting and pointlessness ( “OK. In order to get you to the right person, we’ll need to ask you a few questions. What would you like to do? If you’d like to spend the next half hour eating your own face, press or say 1”).
Those things are just what make me yell.
I’ll admit it: the key ingredient, the ignitor that makes me cry, is knowing I might not be totally right. And 85% of the time, it’s some mistake I could have avoided if I’d only opened my damn mail.
I hate opening envelopes. That’s why I have everything billed automatically and electronically, but I guess I’m still supposed to check it and make sure there are no mistakes. And I’m definitely supposed to open the letter they send saying, in effect, “Hey, you made a call to Switzerland for $250. Wow! You probably didn’t mean to do that!” That call would have cost pennies if I had made sure Verizon was routing my international calls through the long distance company I pay separately. I thought I had, but if you don’t get those things in writing, you’re a dingbat. I’m not explaining it well, but you get the point:
When I know I’m the dingbat, I cry.
When someone else is definitely the dingbat, I don’t cry. Like when the bank has been taking fees out of an account totally by error and they keep stuttering that they’re going to fix it. While I’m on the phone admonishing them, telling them that it’s inexcusable, sometimes I get a flash of merciful compassion. “I know you’re dealing with a lot, Eric,” I say with a gentle smile in my voice. “Please just assure me that it won’t happen again.”
My resolution for 2011 is to keep on top of things so that I’m never wrong, and so no one can make me cry.
I cry just from the automated phone system. “Is this an emergency? For regicide press 1…”
I cry just from the automated phone system. “Is this an emergency? For regicide press 1…”
Try calling Jet Blue and getting through only to be told that the wait time is over thirty minutes, which turns out to be forty five, after finding out that the confirmed flight was cancelled and they can’t get you on any other flight for another two days. And the other two flights that day (today) for the same route were not cancelled, but “I’m sorry, your flight is cancelled due to weather conditions.” And then Have a NIce Day and Thank you for calling Jet Blue. It didn’t make me cry — it just made me throw the toast. But when I know the problem is really my fault, and I complain about it, I want to cry, too. Maybe it’s inherited.
Try calling Jet Blue and getting through only to be told that the wait time is over thirty minutes, which turns out to be forty five, after finding out that the confirmed flight was cancelled and they can’t get you on any other flight for another two days. And the other two flights that day (today) for the same route were not cancelled, but “I’m sorry, your flight is cancelled due to weather conditions.” And then Have a NIce Day and Thank you for calling Jet Blue. It didn’t make me cry — it just made me throw the toast. But when I know the problem is really my fault, and I complain about it, I want to cry, too. Maybe it’s inherited.
Delegate the stuff you hate doing. (Got a husband? A dog? A neighbor?)
Anyone will do. Well, as long as they can read the dollar symbol.
The last mail I didn’t open cost me an attorney. It’s my childrens, fault because neither one of them brought the mail inside for over a week!!!! They walk by it every single day.
If it weren’t a mile away from the house, I’d check it. I swear, I would.
Here’s a few simple rules to get back on the straight and narrow:
1. Check your mailbox, your real mailbox, with letters in it and stuff, at least once a week. This way you avoid that crushing feeling of not getting any mail.
2. Sort your mail immediately. Make two piles. Pile 1 is mail that might have money in it. Pile 2 is mail that won’t have money in it. This is also known as “junk mail.” You get junk mail from advertisers, toenail grooming companies, & utility companies like phone and gas and stuff. Sadly, you must not throw all of this way. Yet. Open Pile 1, deposit checks, etc.
3. If you get any envelope with Eye Arr Ess in the return address, go ahead and call in sick, cancel appointments, call the dogsitter, whatever. Tell ’em “something came up.” None of their damn business what. Whatever is in that envelope just became “Job #1!” so get to it.
With these simple rules, you can’t go wrong!