Scrumptious Word Morsels

Sure, I complain when products don’t meet my expectations or when I run into horrible customer service. I think there’s a certain level of quality and support that many companies are failing to meet these days. But for all my complaining, I’m also a firm believer in giving credit where credit is due, and that’s why I’m writing a positive review of Brita’s customer service.

I’ve been using various Brita water pitchers for the last four years or so. Aside from the initial $25-40 outlay for the cost of the pitcher, there are filters that need to be changed regularly—about $6 a pop if you get a good deal on them (I get mine from Costco or Amazon). I change my filter out religiously every three months, so Brita essentially has me hooked as a customer for life.

Just over three months ago, I bought a new pitcher that had been serving me well for my day-to-day water needs. When three months rolled around, I decided to change the filter, and I figured I’d wash the pitcher parts with soap and warm water—just in case. As I was cleaning the clear pitcher, the handle cracked off, leaving a sharp end on the pitcher and something that could be mistaken for a weapon on my counter. I mean, we’re talking a legitimate shiv that you could use to stab a man. It was sharp.

That same night, I contacted Brita customer support to see if they could help me out. According to their warranty, products are only covered if they’re within 90 days of the purchase date. I had actually purchased the pitcher more than four months ago, but I didn’t start using it until a few weeks later. (It was on sale, came with a free Nalgene, and was a good deal, so I couldn’t pass it up.)

I figured I was out of luck, but I explained my situation and the fact that I was a loyal customer, and then I sat back and hoped for the best. Two days later, I received an email response from Shelley Preston, a customer service rep. She said they were sending out a new pitcher to me at no cost, and that it would arrive in 7-10 business days. Two days later, I had the new pitcher at my house, but it was incompatible with my reservoir and lid. The model number was the same as my broken pitcher, but it was from an older, squarer design.

I emailed Shelley back and told her what had happened, but she simply apologized and said she’d send out the correct pitcher right away. Sure enough, the new one arrived today, and it fits perfectly. Brita is even sending me a prepaid postage label to return the incorrect pitcher they sent the first time.

It would have been easier for Brita to tell me that I was out of my warranty period and there was nothing they could do for me, but instead they went above and beyond to keep me as a satisfied customer. As if I wasn’t already a customer for life due to my recurring filter purchases, this pleasant customer service interaction sealed the deal for me.

It’s nice to see a company that’s willing to stand behind their products even when they’re not obligated to do so.

Alright, I’m going to try something here. [Drum roll, please.] There are lots of things I could write about, but let’s be honest—nobody really cares about those things. So let’s switch it up a bit. Comment on this post and let me know what you want me to write about. As far as topics go, it could be a subject I’m an expert on, or it could be something I know nothing about. It’s up to you.

Comments are open, obviously!

I’ve been putting this post off because I don’t even know where to begin, but I think we’ll hit the good first and then come back for the bad and the ugly.

So, I got a bike on Wednesday! And it’s pink, and it has training wheels and streamers and a horn and… not really. But I could get all those things if I wanted them, and this bike would still be badass. (Since badass is in the dictionary, I figured it was probably OK to use it on a PG-rated site.) The motorcycle is a 2005 Suzuki GS500F in black and red, and it’s only got about 1800 miles on it. Practically like new. Let’s see some pictures, shall we?

Unfortunately, the carport where the bike is parked in the pictures is probably where it’s going to stay for a few months. For you see, mine is a tale of gross incompetence and blunder by our prestigious community college, which I’m no longer proud to say I attended for three years. I was signed up to take a basic riding course offered through Pima Community College and sanctioned by the Motorcycle Safety Foundation. For whatever reason, the course is taught on-base at Davis-Monthan AFB—as if PCC were too good to use their own wide-open parking lots. The timing of the class was absolutely perfect: I got my bike Wednesday, the first class was on Thursday, and the last two were Saturday and Sunday. I’d be licensed and riding on the streets by Monday of the following week. Or so I thought.

I showed up at DMAFB at 5:10 Thursday night in preparation for the 5:30 class. I didn’t know where I was supposed to go, and I like being prepared, so it was better to be 20 minutes early than 1 minute late. The rest of the students started trickling in around 5:25, and the instructor finally showed up right at 5:30. Everyone but me has a handful of papers and their passports. “Strange”, I think to myself, “but whatever”. After the instructor signed a few people in, he asked me for my waiver and my passport. “My waiver and my passport?” I ask. “What waiver?” Well, guess who didn’t get the memo! Yep, that would be me. PCC sent out a packet of information to every student in the class—every student except me, of course.

Now it’s 5:35 and I’m panicking. The passport (or birth certificate, which I also did not have on me) serves as proof of citizenship, and it’s required to get on base. I’m pleading with the instructor and the gears are turning as I propose all kinds of solutions. There was even an Army guy taking the class who offered to sign me in as his guest, but no dice. I promised the instructor I would produce a passport on Saturday if he’d let me in, but he wouldn’t go for it. He did, however, tell me that class would actually start at 6:00, and he asked me how far away I live from the base. When I told him it was thirty minutes north of there, he asked me if I could make it back in time (by 6:00). I didn’t stick around long enough to see this guy’s motorcycle skills, but one thing’s for sure: his math skills aren’t too great.

I went home despondent and pissed off, mostly because I knew the next available class wasn’t until October 2. Now it’s time to put Plan B into action, though. I know you’re wondering what Plan B is. You’re thinking to yourself, “He can’t possibly be stupid enough to try and teach himself how to ride.” If you were thinking that, you would, in fact, be wrong. I’m taking the written test at the MVD sometime this week to get my Class M permit, and I’ve already read through the manuals put out by the Arizona MVD and the MSF—twice. In fact, the MSF manual that’s available online is the exact same one they use in the class I’m (re-)scheduled to take. I also ordered Proficient Motorcycling: The Ultimate Guide to Riding Well from Amazon, and that’ll be here Wednesday. Finally, I have several friends who are experienced riders, and I plan to enlist their help as I navigate through the treacherous terrain of local parking lots.

Wish me luck! Oh, and if anyone needs some organs that are in good shape (good genes, no smoking, and minimal drinking), I think my friends have started a pool. Get in touch with them if you want dibs on any of the good stuff: the biceps, the face, the flowing locks, etc.

Admittedly, I had something else in mind for this post, but when a silver platter is dropped into your lap, you really have no choice but to do something with it. I was getting a car insurance quote from Geico last night (15 minutes can save you 15% or more, right?), and that’s when I noticed a flagrant misuse of the beloved apostrophe. Look at the first item in the right column in the screenshot (click to embiggen) and you’ll see what I’m talking about.

Well, Geico, what if I do have more than 9 vehicle’s [sic]? What if I had 9 vehicles’ steering wheels? Or what if I just had 9 vehicles? So remember, kids: plurals don’t take an apostrophe unless you’re talking about lowercase letters (mind your p’s and q’s), but some editors also prefer to use an apostrophe to pluralize capital letters and acronyms (I got straight A’s last semester/my old bank didn’t have enough ATM’s).

Ugh. (You just know a post is going to be good when it starts out that way.) In sharp contrast to the great experience I had recently with American Express, the email I received today from Chase (the holders of the key to one of my Visa cards and purveyors of all things evil, apparently) is rather disconcerting. The email was about updates to their privacy policy, and here’s exactly what set me off:

Third party sharing: You may tell us not to share information about you with non-financial companies outside of our family of companies. Even if you do tell us not to share, we may do so as required or permitted by law.

As required or permitted by law? So it doesn’t matter if you opt out—as I promptly did—because Chase is going to share your information with third parties anyway. Third parties! As the policy spells out, these are non-financial companies outside of the other companies they own. Let’s see… that narrows it down to… anyone!

To recap, Chase is saying: We’re going to share your information with companies that pay us enough to make it worthwhile. You can opt out over the phone, and we’ll use the recordings for training purposes and for amusement at company parties, but here’s the deal: We don’t really care. Our ethical standard ends at the law, so for the time being, our name is Ruby and your name is Inmate #8826104.

My goodness. Chase makes Comcast look like Salvation Army volunteers. Good thing I’ll be closing my account with them as soon as I pay off this month’s balance.

I’ve tried to like Rainbow sandals, I really have. Despite numerous problems with my first pair, I still wanted to try the hemp version instead of the standard leather version because it seems like they’d be more durable and comfortable. The leather ones crack easily and don’t hold up to moisture very well, which is unfortunate considering how much sweat my feet are capable of producing. I strolled over to Landmark Clothing on University today in search of the mythical hemp sandals, only to be severely disappointed.

Someone about my age greeted me when I walked in, and when he asked if there was anything he could help with, I told him I was looking for Rainbow sandals. He pointed over to a wall where approximately 15 pairs of various sandals (all Rainbow brand) were hanging. After looking over the selection and not finding what I wanted—it didn’t take long; there were only 15 pairs, after all—I asked if this was it or if other varieties were off hiding somewhere else.

About that time, an older man—clearly the owner or at least a manager of some kind—emerged from the back of the store and took charge of the situation. He informed me that they could order anything I wanted that wasn’t in stock.

“Great”, I said. “How long will that take?”

“Two weeks at minimum, but probably more like two and a half.”

“But I can order them online and they’d get here quicker and cost less”, I protested.

“Go ahead and order them online, then.”

“Thanks, I think I will. Have a nice day.”

And then I left. And just like that, Landmark Clothing lost a sale and a customer, because there’s no way I’m ever going back into that store again.

This is just one of many customer service stories I could tell—and do tell from time to time right here on this site. When did it become fashionable to treat customers (and potential customers) like crap? When did businesses become too good to accept my hard-earned cash that I willingly want to throw at them? When will small companies wake up and realize that they’re not just competing against other local shops, but against every vendor with a website?

Today, for the first time in my life, I was actually somewhat proud of my decision to go to business school. That feeling has since worn off (and it didn’t take very long, either), but the point remains: common-sense business practices might not be common sense to a lot of people trying to run a business. And if that’s the case, then things that aren’t common sense (e.g. marketing, accounting, operations management) must be way out in the ether somewhere.

Oh, and by the way, I did end up ordering the hemp Rainbows I was looking for. They should be here in about four days.

One of these days, somebody is going to hit me with their* car. And my biggest fear isn’t that I’m going to get hit or even that I’m going to die. My biggest fear is that nobody will be there to scrape me off the pavement, and thus, I won’t even get a proper funeral out of the deal.

In case you were wondering, I’m hardly referring to specific situations anymore. Walking through crosswalks in Tucson on a daily basis should be enough to encourage most people to get their affairs in order. But now that I think of it, there was a girl yesterday who almost hit me because she failed to look both ways before turning out of a parking garage. (I was crossing Park Ave.—in a crosswalk—just north of Speedway).

* Yes, yes. I know it’s not technically correct to say their in place of his/her, but it’s in common use and so much less awkward.

Tucson drivers:

I’ll cut straight to the chase here.

Would it be too much trouble for you to look over at the crosswalk before you start turning right on a green? I almost got run over twice today because you were too busy talking on your cell phones and listening to your music. If you and your boyfriend are having an argument and you need to respond to his text message right away, pull into a parking lot and have at it.

If you’re doing anything other than devoting your full attention to driving while the car is moving, you shouldn’t be on the road. And even if you’re not doing something distracting, at least glance over at the crosswalk before you turn to make sure there aren’t any people in it. And for the love of O.J. Simpson memorabilia, if there are people in the crosswalk, don’t just shrug your shoulders, smile nervously, and keep turning.

Sweet goodness, you people scare the crap out of me.

Update: I might turn this into a weekly feature and call it my civil service to Tusconans. Stay tuned.

Criminal(s) who broke into my car last night:

You are scum. You represent everything that’s wrong with America. Instead of working hard and leading an honest life, you found it necessary to damage someone else’s property and take that which did not belong to you. Because of your insolence, I have to take time off work tomorrow to fix the car window you smashed out.

And what did it get you? You stole an iPod charging cable (retail value: $15), a Coleman portable air compressor ($40), and a plastic emergency kit full of rags, paper towels, oil, and spare parts (maybe $20 if your buyer is sufficiently drugged out). I sure hope you can use this stuff to make some great drugs, because it’s probably not going to net you much profit otherwise.

Furthermore, you didn’t even have the courage to be a man about it. You waited until the middle of the night when no one was watching, and then you preyed on a defenseless automobile. You are absolutely pathetic. I’ll tell you what, though. I’ll load up my car with some high-dollar electronics, and you can come back during the middle of the day and try to go two for two. I’ll be the guy sitting in a rocking chair, smoking a cigar, reading Guns & Ammo, and with a loaded pistol in my lap.

Hope to see you again soon, you worthless waste of resources.

A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.