Yet another customer service failure

In 2010, Discover Card launched it's popular "My name is Peggy" ad campaign, featuring an ineptly handled customer service call routed to a bearded male operator in what appeared to be an eastern European call center. The initial ad was followed by multiple sequels and the now popular campaign has since 'grown legs' (as we say in marketing circles), generating hundreds of thousands of YouTube views, television satires and more.

Some months after the launch of Discover's now infamous campaign, I personally experienced what I felt to be the virtual equivalent of "Peggy", courtesy of Amazon.com. If you examine the text of the Amazon chat session closely, I think you'll agree that I probably wasn't chatting with a native English speaker (hence the "Peggy" analogy). What really frustrated me about my Amazon experience however (which is also analogous to Discover's "Peggy" example) was that I was left with the impression that, while Amazon was willing to invest in living and breathing human beings to provide customer service, the primary focus of said 'customer service' appeared (to me, at least) to be mostly focused on placating, versus actually serving the customer.

Which brings me to my most recent 'Peggy encounter', experienced today courtesy of 1800Flowers.com...

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Thank you for choosing 1-800-flowers.com. A representative will be with you shortly.

You are now chatting with Laxmi.

Laxmi: Hello! How can I help you with your order today?

You: Hi. I'm an [OMMITTED COMPANY NAME] employee who's been shopping w/1800flowers for years using the [OMITTED COMPANY NAME] discount/promo code "[OMITTED PROMO CODE]". I'm now trying to place an order, and the promo code's not being accepted.

Laxmi: I'll be happy to help you with that!

Laxmi: One moment please while I find that information for you.

You: thank you

Laxmi: You're welcome.

Laxmi: What is the error you have on the order?

You: "We’re sorry, the promotion code [OMITTED PROMO CODE] you entered is not valid for any items in your cart."

Laxmi: May I have the product code for the item you are ordering?

You: 96123

Laxmi: Thank you very much.

You: You're welcome.

Laxmi: I am very sorry for the inconvenience this issue have caused.

Laxmi: What you would need to do, is complete the order on the web site with out the promotion code then make contact with 1-800baskets.com at 1-800-994-3457.

Laxmi: They will be able to apply the 20% discount on the order for you.

You: The order bills to me card when it's placed. That would require multiple charges/credits, as well as additional time spent on the phone (beyond the time spent in this chat). I'd prefer a more convenient solution, else I might need to investigate alternative sources for my [OMITTED COMPANY NAME] co-worker's get well gift.

Laxmi: I am very sorry for the inconvenience caused.

You: Are you saying you have no other alternative to offer?

Laxmi: I am very sorry, that is the only way you can order order that item and get the discount on the order.

Laxmi: If you like you can select another item and try the promotion code with that item.

You: The solution you're proposing will require more effort on the part of the customer and 1800Flowers. I'm afraid I'll need to investigate alternative vendors. Thank you for your time.

Laxmi: I apologize for the inconvenience.

Laxmi: If you like you can complete the order without the promotion code and I can place the call for you to 1-800 baskets.com.

You: My preference would be an alternate promo code, voucher, etc that would otherwise enable me to conveniently complete the transaction with a single charge to my account.

Laxmi: It is not the promotion code that has the problem.

Laxmi: The problem is with the product you are ordering. Once the order is placed I cannot access that order since it is handled by a 1-800 baskets.com specialist.

Laxmi: Due to that fact, we will need to make contact with them to have the discount applied manually since there seems to be a problem with the product not accepting the promotion.

You: Purely from a customer service standpoint, I fail to see why any of that should be the problem/additional inconvenience of a 1800Flowers.com customer. Further, while we've been discussing this, I've found an equivalent product for less from a competitive vendor. Unless you have an alternative solution to offer, I'm afraid I'll be ordering from one of your competitors. I'm sorry, but I did provide 1800Flowers with every opportunity to save the sale.

Laxmi: I am very sorry, I do wish to keep you as a satisfied customer, unfortunately, as I explained above the only way I can have this discount applied for you, is have you complete the order with out the promotion code and then have it manually taken off the order.

You: Thank you for your time and effort. Have a nice day.

Laxmi: Have a nice day! Bye.

Laxmi: Thank you for chatting with 1-800-Flowers.com. We value your feedback. Please click the END CHAT button at the top right to answer a few questions about your experience with us today.

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If you agree that companies like Amazon and 1-800-Flowers need to put more emphasis on actually serving (versus simply placating) their customers, I would encourage you to share this blog posting as widely as possible via social media. And guess what? I just happen to have a sample tweet handy to help you do just that...

Frustrated by virtual "My name is #Peggy"-like #customer #service from #Amazon, #1800Flowers or others? http://bit.ly/xbKnEn. Retweet if so

Oh, and, most importantly, have a nice day! ;-)

Saving the planet... Or not

I read an article this morning that really got me thinking. In a recent issue of my local suburban Chicago newspaper, there was a story about a local author living in Westmont, Illinois, Joel Greenberg, and his campaign to raise awareness regarding the one-hundredth anniversary of the demise of a local species, the passenger pigeon.

Now you may be wondering why such an article would interest me. After all, there are a number of species that no longer exist, from the ancient dinosaurs to the more recent dodo bird, so what makes the passenger pigeon so special? The answer's simple, really... I'd never heard of the passenger pigeon!

True environmentalists (or simply those better informed about such things, including members of the Sierra Club, the Audubon Society, etc) are probably now shaking their heads at the appalling extent of my ignorance. As a matter of fact, anyone who grew up east of the Mississippi may be wondering if I slept through something they'd learned about in public school or on a grade school field trip. Unfortunately, I did not grow up in the Midwest, which is why this story interests me so much.

Generations ago, off the coast of my home state of California, literally billions upon billions of sardines swam in enormous schools. Steinbeck wrote about them in his novel "Cannery Row", and my paternal great-grandparents actually worked in the Monterey, California-based canneries that provided the basis for Steinbeck's novel. Every year, millions of sardines were pulled out of the Pacific Ocean, packed in oil, canned up in easy-opening tins and shipped across the globe. An industrial machine was created that sustained thousands of fisherman and cannery workers. California's sardine industry grew into such a powerful engine of wealth that, when the sardine market collapsed, it continued on, simply grinding the sardines into fertilizer instead of food.

The story of California's sardine industry is well known to me, but the surprisingly similar (and even more cautionary) tale of the passenger pigeon was not. As the article strikingly highlights, between 3 to 5 billion passenger pigeons once made their homes here in the United States, "their vast numbers when in flight stretching for miles and literally obscuring the sun." Initially viewed as a ready source of food for individual hunters, the massive numbers of passenger pigeons later inspired competitive hunts where, to win, hunters would have to kill 30,000 birds. The passenger pigeon even created an industry of sorts, where birds were hunted so that they could be shipped across the sea and sold for food.

Unlike the sardines off the coast of California, which now exist in significant (though hardly historic) numbers, the passenger pigeons are now completely extinct. Out of upwards of 5 billion birds and flocks that once "literally obscured the sun", not a single flock flies above our purple mountains majesty, not a single pair of wings takes flight above our amber waves of grain... Nor have they since the last bird died in 1914.

The 100th anniversary of this one American avian's demise is almost upon us, and I'm sure you can now see why author Joel Greenberg wants everyone to remember it... A date not to be celebrated, but rather remembered and reflected upon, so as to help prevent such a tragedy from ever occurring again. If you agree, please take a moment and help spread the story.

White Thanksgiving

I was pelted with snowflakes during today's dog walk, a full two weeks before Thanksgiving. Growing up in Calfornia's Central Valley, I can recall Thanksgiving frost, Thanksgiving rain, even Thanksgiving tule fog, but never Thanksgiving snow. Since relocating to the Midwest some twelve years ago, White Thanksgivings have been something I've become accustomed to though, so much so that I was once inspired to write a completely original song about them...

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White Thanksgiving

♪ I'm dreaming of a White Thanksgiving,
        Just like the ones we never knew.
                Where the turkey shivered,
                        The cranberry quivered,
And gravy congealed into glue. ♫

♫ I'm dreaming of a White Thanksgiving,
        With mittens on so I can't write.
                May your furnace not fail to lite,
And your next Thanksgiving be less white. ♪
               
By T.R. Nunes (c), 2000

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Happy Thanksgiving!

The Control Room of Hell

NOTE: This blog was originally posted to Xanga.com on March 1, 2003, close to a decade ago. I'm re-posting it here today in honor of my dad's seventy-second birthday.


How close have you stood to Armageddon?

I'm now convinced that children always take their parents for granted, failing to appreciate the many trials, travails and hardships their parents go through to support them. It's human nature I suppose, not being able to truly appreciate someone else's circumstances, someone else's sacrifices, without having shared the same (or at least similar) experiences.

I must've been around eight years old when my dad first got the job at the glass plant. Up until then, from the time he was twelve years old, he'd worked for the local newspaper, The Stockton Record. Back then, The Stockton Record (now simply called The Record) was a family-owned business that, like many other family-owned businesses, looked on their employees as "family". And one shouldn't be expected to pay other family members all that much for a days work, right? After all, there were all those other intangibles that came along with being a part of the family, such as sharing the load, respecting your elders, exchanging gifts during the holidays and such. So it's not hard to imagine how "the family" at The Stockton Record felt when they heard about a certain plus-twenty year employee's communications with an institution called "a union".

Suffice it to say that my father found himself out of work after two decades of employment, with a wife, two kids, and no money coming in. Which, to illustrate my point about children failing to appreciate the trials and travails of their parents, was a situation my sister and I loved! For, while my father was forced to work up to three jobs at a time, including a graveyard shift driving a cab around Stockton, California, in the middle of the night (I hope I didn't scare too many people there), one of his jobs was just oh, so cool. During the afternoon and early evening (swing shift), he worked at a pizza parlor called "Boyces". Believe it or not, my sister and I had never even tasted pizza up until then, and it just so happened that, when a pizza (or two... or three) got burnt and they couldn't sell it to a customer, dad got to bring those burnt pizzas home! Yum!! While it may have been one of the lowest points in my father's life, his children sure appreciated the "silver lining".

Eventually dad landed a job at a local glass plant, where he ended up working (with the exception of a painful layoff period that lasted a year or two) for over thirty years, up until his recent retirement. Once again though, his sacrifices went unappreciated by his children for many, many years. I can remember feeling resentment for the most part, because he was either working too many hours of overtime (a seventy hour week wasn't all that unusual), or working swing shift, where he left before we awoke and got home after we were asleep. For years growing up, a "traditional family dinner" was an oddity reserved for Sunday evenings, elementary and junior high school concerts were attended by only our mother, and family outings with cousins and aunts were occasionally missing the head of our own family.

As an atypical teenager, I appreciated none of this. The stories of working in an "incredibly hot" factory were probably just exaggerations, as were the descriptions of the working conditions. I mean, everyone exaggerates, right?

Years went by, decades even, while my dad continued to work in that glass plant. I graduated from high school, junior college, college, got married, became a father myself, and still he worked in that mysterious place he complained and exaggerated about all the while I was growing up. Then one day, only five or six years ago, I was granted the opportunity, the gift, to step into Hell itself with my father.

I'd recently taken a new job with a technology company (who I still work for), and received a call to go out to a local glass factory to help with the roll-out of new laptop computers, a rollout that had gone completely awry. As it turned out, the glass company my dad worked for had a support contract with my new employer... Which is why, one bright, crisp spring morning in California's Central Valley, I found myself driving up to the gates of the plant my father had worked at (and still worked at) most of the years I was growing up.

Though I spent most of my time in the nicely air-conditioned office areas, where the managers in their suits and ties worked (and the computers I was hired to work on mostly resided), I also got to spend some time "on the floor" (i.e. the production floor of the plant), where the bending and fitting of windshields occurred, inventory was warehoused, equipment and machinery were maintained... Basically where most of the day-to-day work occurred. I also got to spend some time working in the nicely air-conditioned offices of engineers near "the float"... Or (perhaps more accurately) near 'the gates of Hell'.

Most people, myself included, spend their entire lives using products they have no firsthand experience as to the creation of. For example, up until that point in my life, I'd never seen how "flat glass" – the architectural glass used in buildings – was made, or how the "shield glass" used in automotive windshields was created. Oh sure, I new the odd bits about melted sand, silica, that most people know, but not the gritty, uncomfortable and [potentially]dangerous details that the people who make such glass live with every day.

For example, "the float", an unbroken ribbon of glass over a quarter of a mile long, actually "floats" on a river of molten metal, of liquid tin. Remember the last time you opened a tin can, possibly one holding canned fish or fruit? Can you imagine how hot it might be if it were molten? I know I never could, at least not until I actually saw it in person. One of the reasons the float was so long was to allow for the gradual cooling of the molten glass. Towards its end, where the glass was only hot enough to perhaps burn away your hand (e.g. instead of your entire arm or body), the clear ribbon actually moved along on metal rollers. And, because the float had to run continuously (else it would take literally weeks to get the process going again), if there wasn't an immediate need for the glass, the end of the float would lower, causing huge sheets of glass to come crashing down, only to be pushed all the way back under the float, under that river of molten liquid metal, to the furnace where it then could be re-mixed and melted once again.

I can remember standing there, near (though not too near) an "access point", a small little door made of heavily insulated steel and surrounded by firebricks, used for maintenance. The heat coming from the viewing port of that little door was unbelievably intense, as was the incredibly bright red molten material visible beyond. I half expected a little man with pointed horns and a pitchfork to caper out onto the red molten liquid and thrust his ancient weapon in my direction. Then I remembered the stories my own father had told as I was growing up, all the complaints and exaggerations, about working near (or even underneath), something called "the float" (dad worked in plant maintenance); About how incredibly hot it could get in the plant, especially on days where the temperatures in California's Central Valley exceeded one hundred degrees.

Standing there next to that float, sweating after only a few minutes and wincing from that Hell that could've instantly incinerated me if it weren't for less than a foot of protective material, I understood... As a father myself, a husband, a college graduate, a white-collar worker, whatever, I understood... All those stories suddenly had meaning, impact, and I could feel their truth trickling off my brow.

Before I finished up that job, I got to spend time in my dad's office in the truck shop, where he worked most of the time. I even got a lift from him once, from one end of the plant to another, on a little electric cart he had (boy, was that a wild ride!). Eventually, I also got to work in the control room, possibly the most interesting part of the entire factory. Sitting immediately underneath the main furnace, at the beginning/"head" of the float, the control room was where the entire process was monitored, adjusted, and maintained. Engineers with college degrees walked hot, concrete pathways to that room, the heat near the entry doors almost unbearable. Then they entered and found themselves in a cool, air-conditioned, white-walled room, filled with controls, gauges, computers, and other monitoring or control equipment. A simple mistake in that room, a dial turned a little too far, or the wrong set of numbers entered incorrectly, could affect hundreds of fellow human beings working outside of that heavily protected "white room". Just one simple mistake...

Thinking back to that control room, I now wonder... Perhaps we adults are no more appreciative of others than our children are of us? For I can think of other examples, other "white rooms", where a single action could result in catastrophic consequences to others. And, as was the case in that glass plant, the people "turning the dials" in those other "white rooms" often haven't experienced what their fellow human beings have, out there "in harms way", next to the "float", next to Hell on Earth. Would a little empathy help improve the decisions of our world's many "engineers", sitting in their cool, safe "white rooms"?

To be honest, I couldn't even hazard a guess. I will say this, though... Thanks, Dad. Thanks for the sacrifices, the hard work, the endless days. Thanks for "dancing with the devil at the gates of Hell" for your family. Thanks for everything.

Sweet Memories...

...Seen through rose-colored glasses or tasted 'pon a spoon

Many long years ago, I dated a young woman who dearly wanted to impress her new beau. Following the age-old rule-of-thumb that the fastest way to a man's heart is through his stomach, the young woman prepared a sumptuous, English-inspired feast of roast beef, Yorkshire pudding and gravy, with an 'English' trifle for dessert.

Many long years later, that young woman and I recently celebrated our 26th anniversary. And, while I will refrain from hypothesizing as to what influence (if any) that first meal had on our future, I readily admit that I have never forgotten it. Which brings me to this past weekend...

Though my wife's trifle recipe has been lost for decades now, I attempted to make it again almost entirely from memory (with her guidance/clarifications, of course) this past Independence Day, changing just a few things to make it both [slightly]healthier and [mostly]lactose-free. And, as the 'early reviews' (i.e. the comments of my wife and her coworkers) have been largely positive, I decided to share the recipe here...

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Tim & Kathy's low-fat 'English' Trifle *

Ingredients:
1 - Sara Lee Free and Light Pound Cake, partially thawed
1/2 c. Smucker's Strawberry Jam
1/4 c. orange juice
1/4 c. dry sherry
10 old-fashioned/dry-style (versus soft/chewy) coconut macaroon cookies, crumbled
1/2 pound fresh strawberries, rinsed, drained and sliced, w/stems removed
1 dry pint fresh blueberries, rinsed, drained and sliced, w/stems removed
1 - 5.1 oz. package instant vanilla pudding
3 c. Light Silk soy milk
8 oz. fat-free whipped topping, thawed but still chilled

Directions:
Partially thaw pound cake and cut into slices approximately 1" thick. Liberally spread strawberry preserves on cake slices, cut into cubes approximately 1" square, and spread to cover the bottom of a trifle dish or other container. Mix sherry and orange juice together and evenly trickle over the layer of cake. Evenly sprinkle eight crumbled cookies over the cake layer. Add a layer of blueberries and sliced strawberries. Wisk/slowly mix instant pudding and soy milk for approximately two minutes or until it starts to thicken slightly, then let chill for approximately five minutes more. Fold chilled/defrosted whipped topping into the partially set pudding, then pour the mixture evenly over the fruit layer. Crumble two more cookies over the top of the assembled/completed trifle. Chill an hour or more before serving.

Serves six to eight.

* Note: Loosely based on/adapted from a "Seventeen Magazine" recipe published in the late 70s/early 80s

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I hope you enjoy the trifle as much as we did... And that it becomes your own 'sweet memory'. ;-)

Dog Days

Inspired by an errand in the car with the dog

Human (in the driver's seat):

... and he's putting on his brakes, better slow down... Watch the curb on the right... Damn, going too slow... Try to stay in the center of the lane... Jeez! Watch it, asshole!... Damn, now I'm going too fast... Wow, check out the ass on that jogger... Damn! Stay in your lane! Stay in your lane!...

Dog (in the back seat, head out the side window, watching a park pass by on the right):

Tree!

Tree!

Tree!

Tree!

Tree!

Tree!

Tree!

...

One Day 'Off'

Those who know me (especially those who know me well), appreciate that I'm a little 'off'.

I've often wondered why it is that I am the way I am, generally coming to the conclusion that my personality is largely self-inflicted. Growing up on the eastside of Stockton, California, in a neighborhood with no other kids my age, my best friend from an early age was myself. As a child, I fished alone at the local diverting canal, watched TV alone, read books alone... I even practiced the sax alone, after picking up the family instrument at the tender age of nine.

Later in life, I continued to follow my own muse (so to speak), leading a church choir few thought I could lead, playing an instrument few now appreciate, using a computer few others used, writing poetry and prose few ever read, recording songs few would hear. For more than four decades, such solitary pursuits were the method to my madness, the modus operandi of my id... Until today. Today I came to a realization that upset all my prior assumptions......

I was simply born one day off.

I was born on July 13, a day like any other. It was simply the day I ate cake and blew out candles each year, in the company of my immediate family and (on rare occasions) a few cousins or the odd schoolmate. As a matter of fact, the date held little added significance until my sophmore year of high school, when I met someone who would become my best friend... Someone who, oddly enough, was born exactly one year and a day after I was.

Steve Childress was a fellow 'okieville boy' (Okieville being the nickname of the unincorporated neighborhood where we both lived) who grew up approximately four or five miles south of my parent's east Stockton home. Both band geeks, we didn't meet until we were attending Franklin High School together back in the late 70's, as our geographical separation meant we attended different elementary and junior high schools. I'll avoid revisionist history by falsely claiming that Steve and I were ever inseparable, but he honestly was my closest friend in high school... A friend who was born on July 12... As was another friend from high school... And a friend I met after high school... And a close in-law I met after that. All told, more of the people I hold dear share July 12 as their birthday than any other... Just one day apart from my own... Just one day 'off'.

Steve never seemed to mind my being a little 'off' though, which is perhaps one of the reasons we became friends... For a few years, at least. And it's because of his impending birthday that I was reminded of one warm day in October, 1993 when, as the interim choir director of First Presbyterian Church of Tracy, Calfornia, during an AIDS Awareness service, I eulogized my late friend as follows (Note: I've left the copy as I originally wrote it back in '93, typos and all) ...

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Good Morning.

I'd like take a moment to talk about a very close friend of mine. Those of you who attended my wedding, in this very church in the summer of 1985 may remember him, as he was my best man. His name: Steven Childress.

Steve and I met in the fall of 1979, at Franklin High School in Stockton. Steve was just starting as a Freshman, I was a sophomore, and we met through our joint involvement in the music program.

The two of us were a study in contrasts:

- Steve was what some would have called 'clean cut'. I, on the other hand, had long hair and smoked.

- Steve was an Eagle Scout. I had 'left' the Boy Scouts before making the rank of Tenderfoot.

- Steve not only attended church on a regular basis, he helped with the choir at his church, as well as playing both the piano and the organ. I myself did not attend church at all (even Christmas and Easter).

- Steve was the most exceptionally talented musician I ever met, or had the pleasure of playing with. Any instrument he had a desire or a need to play, he easily picked up in a matter of weeks. In the few years we were in high school together, he was asked to play the Piano (as well as various synthesizers), the Trombone, the Oboe, the Bass Clarinet, the Baritone, as well as several other instruments I'm sure I'm forgetting, all of which he did quite easily. I, on the other hand, had to struggle to learn any instrument, as well as spend a great amount of time doing something Steve generally didn't need to do: practice.

In the fall of 1990, at the age of 26, Steve died of AIDS. The following hymn was one of his favorites.

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I forget which of Steve's favorite hymns I sang that day, a fact that pains me to no end. I haven't forgotten him, though... Nor will I ever forget any of the other friends and family I later met who share his birthday, and who also forgave me for being a little 'off' (and yes, I still remember who you are). ;-)