Oh Say Can You See?

Sometimes things come out of the blue, or, in the case of last night, the red, white and blue. My youngest daughter is in the Austin Civic Orchestra, and Craig and my mom and I went to her first concert of the season last night. We got there early so we just visited with each other, made last-minute trips to the bathroom, read the program, and I passed the time by eating some Starburst. The lights finally dimmed in the Reagan Performing Arts Center (great acoustics, by the way) and the orchestra began tuning. The conductor walked out to hearty applause, lifted her baton, and that's when the surprise came. I thought they were starting the concert, but about one measure in I realized they were playing the national anthem. As we're conditioned to do, everyone stood. Now let me interject here that over the last 20 years I have been to 10,001 events where the national anthem was played: football games, basketball games, volleyball games, soccer games, dance recitals, awards ceremonies and a whole slew of other things I can't recall at the moment. Following the activities of my children has afforded me ample opportunity to pause and recall that I am fortunate to live in America. But to be honest I'm usually not plugged in. Every now and then I've put my hand on my heart, and occasionally I've even been known to faintly sing along. But for the most part it's become a lifeless ritual for me. No, I don't hate our country, and contrary to what some of the recent political candidates have alleged, I consider myself a true or real American. But going to rote when a long-held tradition pops up is sort of like any other thing that has deteriorated into sheer ceremony - you're doing it but there's an interior disconnect. It's like a couple that genuinely care about each other, but somehow their incessant "I-love-you's" have blended in with the scenery, rendering them somehow less powerful than they used to be. Anyway, as we stood there in that dim auditorium I noticed a small handful of quiet, even mumbling, voices singing along. It grew louder. With each phrase the orchestra seemed to be playing more forcefully, loudly, the strokes of bows against strings becoming more pronounced and distinct. I started singing, still somewhat unaware of what was happening. By the time we got to, "…and the rockets red glare…" the majority of the audience was singing enthusiastically, fervently, loudly. I, too, was singing near the top of my lungs. It was phenomenal - like seeing my granddaughters face turn from gray to bright pink when she took her first breath. With the exception of the aftermath of 9/11 - when we all clung to each other out of shock and fear and devotion to a badly bruised America - last night was the first time I remember being in an audience that was vitally, dynamically, joyfully connected to that song. When the last note was played the audience erupted into thunderous applause. I marveled that I was at an orchestra concert, not a football game. Craig and I turned and looked at each other, eyes wide. "That was cool," he said. I nodded in agreement. This morning I'm still savoring that little burst of fresh air, and am grateful that, regardless of its size, there has been a slight shift since the November 4 election. The audacity of hope, indeed.

pet peeves

I can't believe it's been two months since I've posted to this blog. I'm so covered up in school work I can't seem to find the energy or the time to write. Today, however, I vowed to mention a few things to the one or two of you who actually read this thing! First, I am so sick of hurting myself trying to open things. What's up with the manufacturers?? Do they really think I'm going to steal cat litter while I'm in the store? I had to get needle nose pliers to remove the plastic strip around a gargantuan bucket of kitty litter. And I had to pull HARD. So hard, in fact,that when my pliers slipped I pinched the fleshy pudge on the palm of my hand where my index finger connects. Buy anything electronic and if you don't open it right, the jagged hard plastic will cut the hell out of your hand or finger. Right now I can't seem to think of all of the times lately when I've been trying to open something and thought, "I've GOT to rant about this - it's ridiculous." Do you have any things to add to the impossible-to-open list?

Second, what are the designers thinking? WHAT? The majority of the clothes on the rack have the poofy pregnant look (not so good for those of us who need to lose a few pounds,) or a gathered or tapered band that's supposed to cling to your hips (also not great for the anti-super-skinnies.) Most of the fabrics are hideous - think 1960's curtains meets Jackson Pollock, meets bad acid trip. Seriously. Who thinks up these things? And what are they smoking? News flash: not even the starved models on your runways look good in this crap.

There's one more rant I thought of today (which inspired this long-overdue return to blogging.) But I can't think of what it is because my brain is fried to a crisp and I need to put it to bed. I'll let you know if it ever resurfaces...

Here We Go Again

We're getting ready to move. Again. I think I used to take my house for granted - the one that I owned for 12 years, and the one that I owned for 10 years before that. Roots are a wonderful thing, and when you can't put any down you feel like a hefty wind or a good hard rain might could uproot you at any second. Exposed roots suck. Still, I think I'm faring better than my daughter, who is always traumatized by moving ever since her dad split and we were forced to make the first move (due to his financial indiscretions.) Still, I can't complain. The places where we've lived have been perfect for what we needed at the time, and now we will be living apart again. But for the first time since becoming a college student, my daughter has traded dorm living for an apartment in our neighborhood. And I'm staying in our neighborhood. That feels a little like "home" but not as much as I'd like it to. At the same time, I'm thinking about all of the people all over the world who don't have shelter, running water, electricity, and indoor plumbing (much less wood floors, slate tile, new carpet, track lighting, and state of the art appliances.) As Pee-Wee Herman might say, the secret word for today is "gratitude." I'm thankful for my new condo, for my daughter's apartment, for all of the luxuries I sometimes take for granted. I'm thankful for being able to make a living doing something I enjoy. I'm grateful for my loving boyfriend, my amazing children and grandchildren, my family, and the fact that I am able to walk and talk and hear beautiful music, and see breathtaking things. I'm thankful for the strong, sweet cup of coffee I'm drinking right now. I'm so glad I don't have to worry whether or not I'll eat tonight, or if my children will have enough. If I've learned anything over the last 3 years, it's this: It's all going to be o k a y. I will have what I need at any given time, whether it's able-bodied people to help us move, strength to pack boxes, friends to confide in, or wisdom to make the choice that is right for me.
Peace. Be still. That's my mantra for today.

A good ache

My body is in a bit of a shambles after a physically demanding two days. On Wednesday evening I swam a mile, then kept my granddaughter for about 4 hours. She's the sweetest baby but I carried her around a lot and she's probably about 15 pounds now (yeah, I know, it doesn't sound like much but try picking up a 15 pound weight and carrying it around with you for a couple of hours!) Then yesterday I picked up Craig's nieces from the airport and we spent the day together alternately shooting senior photos and sightseeing. We finished the day by gathering at Waterloo for burgers - Anna, Brandon, Katie, Jennie, Craig and me. What a fun, incredible, amazing day!! I love those girls!

But when I got home I knew I was in trouble, and I'm moving VERRRRRRY slowly this morning. The keyword today is R E S T. Tomorrow is the big day (Craig's 50th.)

I came across a Thomas Merton quote this morning that really resonated with me.

“Whatever new direction God opens up for me - my job is to press forward, to grow interiorly, to pray, to break away from attachments and to defy fears, to grow in faith, which has its own solitude, to seek an entirely new perspective and new dimension in my life.”

That's so easy to swallow when it's not your life that seems to be falling apart. I'm not saying that my life is falling apart right now, but there are several curve balls coming at me, things I didn't see on the horizon. My challenge as a person who believes is to TRUST that whatever's going down will scoot me on down the path toward a higher good. Instead, sometimes I'm like Chicken Little running through the minutes and hours screaming, "The sky is falling! the sky is falling!" It all boils down to the issue of perspective. Either I believe God is running this show or not. Period. You may have to hold me to that tomorrow...

Happy 4th, Pipsy!

Yesterday was July 4 and I was intent on getting some sparklers so that my three-month old granddaughter could see them. Actually, that's not true. I wanted to get a picture of her seeing one. This one is my favorite and a friend made the comment that it was symbolic. She mentioned something about how it was hopeful and patriotic, which made me take another look at the picture (i.e. get my mind off the image and the light and color, and look more deeply at its artistic value.) What is it saying to me? I guess the first feeling I had was sadness, in that here's a beautiful, fresh little soul who is mesmerized by a celebrative symbol of what it means to be American. There is so much good about being an American - I'm definitely not about trashing our country. But I couldn't help but think that that little ball of fire represented all she's inheriting from those of us who have come before her. We, in many ways, are defining our children and grandchildren by what we're handing them. I'm concerned that Piper is going to parent her children in a much more polluted and stripped planet than we have. I read recently that Americans throw away 2.5 million plastic water bottles per day. I also learned that landfills are closing at the rate of one per day. How can all of our trash not affect the living space of those who will come after us? I'm also disturbed that we're handing our descendants crippling debt, as our current national debt is around nine trillion dollars! I am troubled by our oil guzzling and can't help but feel that over the last 100 years - since the industrial revolution - we have used up way more than our fair share of the earth's resources… not to mention wasting them. There's a kick ass song on the new Eliza Gilkyson CD called "The Great Correction." Really makes you think. Looking at Piper gazing at that sparkler makes me want to be more aware of how my choices will affect her in 20, 30, 40 years, and how they will affect her children who come after her. I hope we all wake up before it's too late.

Love it!

I just got back from a whirlwind trip to Las Vegas to see the Cirque de Soleil's "Beatles Love" show. What an incredible event! It was my first Cirque experience and I am an instant devotee. The best way I can describe it is that for nearly two hours you're living inside someone's dream. There are seemingly no limitations - beautifully costumed people are flying, dangling high in the air by one foot, swirling, twirling, dropping, climbing, soaring, falling, dancing, singing, embracing, strutting, lunging, longing. The acrobatics are breathtaking; I've never seen a more stunning group of athletes and artists. The sets, choreography, make up and props are all delicious. And to top it all off, the show is accompanied by the remixed/digitized music of the Beatles. If you're even remotely interested in seeing this show, make whatever sacrifices are necessary to get there… it's worth it.

Customer Service Representative : A Triple Oxymoron

So here are three oxymorons:

Customer + Service
Service + Representative
Customer + Representative

I spent the day in automated CSR hell yesterday. I'm really surprised I let it get to me as much as it did... I was ready to seriously hurt somebody; I was also ready to cry my eyes out.

The first dispute? $4.59. Yes, that's four dollars and fifty-nine cents. It's a late-payment charge from Sprint, from February, when their site was down and wouldn't accept my payment. In other words, it was late because of their screwed up website. I called and they said they'd remove the charge. I don't remember the name of the person I talked to because (shame on me) I believed him! Of course he didn't do anything about it.

So it showed up on my March bill. I called again and talked to Alvaro, CSR #422467 (I thought I was smart by asking for his ID No., but in the long run it did me no good.) First of all I thought Alvaro was a nice Hispanic name. This guy was NOT Hispanic. He had a thick eastern accent and to make matters worse our connection was not good (Hint: he's not on our continent!) So I softly shouted my story, word for word, slowly, to try and help him understand my dilemma. This took a long time. He repeated it to me, and it took me a long time to understand him. He assured me it would be taken care of.

I'll give you one nanosecond to guess what happened. Yep: nothing.

So I got a notice on my April bill that told me my account was overdue and I needed to pay the $4.59. By this time I was really mad. By this time $4.59 seemed like liquid gold to me. By this time I would dip those dollars and cents into hot tar and EAT them, rather than hand them over to Sprint.

So yesterday I called and talked to Kelly. She, too, had a very thick accent and sounded like she was at the bottom of a well in Timbuktu. (Side note: I really get a kick out of outsourced CSR's halfway around the globe saying, "This is Barbara Smith, how may I help you today?) Anyway, I went over my story again with "Kelly". Slowly. Pronouncing each word with perfect diction so she would understand me. She put me on hold for a long time. She came back and said, "My supervisor, Maricel, will take care of this for you." I said, "I'd like to talk to her." She said, "She's in a meeting."

Yeah right.

How stupid do you think I am? They were passing me off again! Her only offering was a guarantee that the ever elusive Maricel, who lives God knows where, was going to tap into the system with her magic management powers and finally remove the $4.59. She even told me that I'd get a text message within two hours confirming it. I thought, "I don't want a text message, lady, I want fireworks, I want writing in the sky, I want a PARADE for all the hours I've put in to this freaking $4.59!"

At this point I didn't believe any promises. But what else could I do? I went about my business. After 7 hours passed and I didn't hear anything, I wasn't mad. I was LIVID. I sifted through Sprint's website to find somewhere to email a nasty, nasty letter. And the fact that clicking on "contact us" does not link me to an address, but rather puts me through a series of questions to see if their FAQ can answer it, REALLY pissed me off. As if automated phone systems weren't bad enough.

Breathe, Laura, breathe.

So I fired off a you-are-the-scum-of-the-earth message, telling them that I couldn't wait for my contract to expire, and that they were going to lose a lot of money as a result of this ordeal (because I'm going to take my children with me when I go!)
I was shaking my fist in the air when I hit send. (Okay, not literally, but definitely figuratively.)

Not long after I got a message from "Ricky," whose communication skills were undoubtedly acquired in the school of cut and paste. And after the canned, "We're so sorry" message, he said, "I am happy to assist you with this matter. But I do not see where you were charged a late fee for March or April."

At that moment I wanted to personally hunt him down - even if I had to buy a plane ticket to Nepal - so I could throttle him. You know those dolls whose eyes bug out when you squeeze them? Yeah...

I wrote "Ricky" another response, outlining AGAIN that it was a carryover from February. I numbered the items. I capitalized the words I would've strongly emphasized if I were talking to him. I waved my arms around, crossed my eyes, said ten "Hail Mary's," and turned around three times while I clicked my heels together.

And then I sent it.

And while sitting in front of my computer in a daze I had a thought. On a whim, I consulted the cyber-god that I suspected may be able to finally help solve my problem.

Google.

Within minutes I had stumbled upon a blog of another guy who had had the same sucky experiences with Sprint, and right there in front of me - like an epiphany rising from the computer screen - were the email addresses of the top Sprint executives. I felt like I had just stumbled upon some sacred code, a treasure that Indiana Jones himself could not have found.

So I copied my email from Ricky, pasted it in a new email, and wrote at the top: "This is what is happening on the shop floor. Does anyone care??" I fired it off to about 6 or 7 executives. Within two hours (I sent this at night, mind you) I had a personal email from Jerry Adriano, Vice President of Customer Experience. He said he'd have someone get in touch with me today, apologized for the mess, and signed it "Jerry." No automated form letter. No prepackaged let-me-get-rid-of-this-person response. A real person. A real person in the United States, who probably spoke good English and had a decent phone connection. Wow! Jerry - where have you BEEN all my life?

For the sake of brevity (ha! What's that?) I'll condense the rest of the story. I got an email today from a guy named Steven Shoecraft. He said to call him and gave me his phone number along with a case number. When I got him on the line he apologized. Again. And then he made a shocking admission:

"We are well aware that our Customer Service is a mess."

I wanted to feign surprise, but I restrained myself.

So... Sprint KNOWS their customer service problems are legion.

The $4.59 has been removed," he continued. "That's IT??" I said. He told me he could see how frustrating it must have been and assured me they were working on the problem. "That does nothing for me," I said nicely, but dryly. I told him that taking up hours of my time, leaving me at the mercy of CSR hell, and then brushing me off with a "sorry" was not only unjust, it was just plain bad business. I told him they should compensate me somehow.

He said, "I don't know how to quantify your time and frustration."

I said, "Steven, how much do you make an hour? I have spent at least FIVE HOURS trying to get someone to listen to me over $4.59. The least you can do is give me a month or two of free service."

And just like that, he took off all of my charges for this month. I should've said two or three months.


And then he gave me his direct line and said that if I ever have any other problems like this I can call him and he will personally take care of things for me.


So, there you have it. That is ONE of my customer service nightmares from yesterday. I'll spare you the details of my Bank of America and Quicken sagas (which were also snarly.)

So will I stay with Sprint when my contract expires in October of this year? I'm not making any decisions today. Even though I'd love to stick it to "the man" (remember that commercial?) by giving my money to one of their competitors, somewhere deep down I know that Cingular, Verizon, AT&T and T-Mobile are no different. The term "Customer Service Representative" will, on some level, always be a triple oxymoron no matter who my cell carrier is.

Besides, now I have Steven's phone number.