Adventures in customer service

Despite my constant yammering about the injustices of unpaid internships, I've worked several jobs that actually pay money (*gasp*) and for all of them, I've had the pleasure of constantly interacting with the public. I generally enjoy this, and on some days, I would even describe myself as a "people person." Ninety-eight percent of the customers I've seen are kind and polite; some even go out of their way to "notice" that the person behind the counter/register is in fact a human being with a beating heart. Anyone who has ever worked in any kind of retail/business/restaurant situation (which is pretty much everyone on the planet) can probably attest to this.

And then there are The Others. So I would like to preface this story by saying that I've never been one of The Others. I have never sent back food, even when I probably should have, caused a scene, or complained when it wasn't necessary. In fact, I don't think I've ever complained to a sales person, waitress, or manager face-to-face.

My mode of complaint communication is e-mail. Last week, I sent this to Dunkin Donuts after making an alarming discovery:

This morning I got a coffee from your location in Boston's Back Bay train station. I've always loved DD coffee, but I'm afraid that today you gave me reason to doubt my allegiance. As I got to the bottom of the coffee, there was a foreign object in it. It was hard and dark, maybe a piece of a coffee bean? My guess is a piece of broken plastic. Nevertheless, not supposed to be there and certainly an unpleasant surprise in my mouth. Please be aware of this. I won't be rushing back to DD anytime soon.

I received a reply within a day or two from some corporate handler, who apologized for my experience, let me know that all DD shops are franchised, and that she would be sending along my e-mail to the owner of the Back Bay store.

This isn't the first time I sent an e-mail with regards to unsatisfactory consumer experiences. I had success letting IMax know that, when I went to see Spiderman 2, the volume was much too loud and the theater much too cold. Two complimentary tickets. CHA CHING. That was very generous of them, because, what am I, 86? The IMax is too loud? In my defense, it was so loud that I could feel my ear drums vibrate during all of the action-packed scenes, and I heard ringing for about an hour after I left the theater. But don't worry, I've written many complimentary e-mails too, once exchanging in weeks-long banter with the lovely people at Reebok.

So, back to how I was wronged by Dunkin Donuts. On Friday of last week, I was out with my brothers and received a phone call, oh yes, a personal phone call, from the manager of the train station Dunkies. Profuse apologizing ensued, and strangely, he asked me if I saved the piece of Whatever-It-Was that found its way into my drink.

When was the last time you had some foreign body in your mouth, which you had to spit out, and then said "hey, let's put this in a Ziploc in case anyone wants to take a look later."

No sir, I did not save it.

Anyway, he asked for my address and said he's pop a gift card in the mail. Today it arrived, with a little note saying, "Hope we see you again." The card was for $10, which will buy me 5 medium regulahs. Totes worth the 3 minutes it took me to send out that e-mail. SO TOTES WORTH IT. You will see me again, good sir.

Note: This never would have happened if Hottie McLatte poured me that cup of coffee.

Shit happens

I've had some well-documented trouble getting over (and under...) Hottie McLatte. After more than two weeks of rushing to Starbucks after work, hopefully scanning the counter for his perfect face, I came up empty every time. He was really gone.

I used to love Starbucks, especially in the winter, when I would indulge in its seasonal drinks, and take shelter in its super-heated, gently lit interior. All that nostalgia is gone now. The coffee doesn't taste as good if McLatte doesn't pour it. Living in the fallout of our love affair, even the service seems less friendly.

But this morning, I was the subject of a divine intervention, orchestrated by Howard Schultz himself. He felt me slip away. He also needs to find a way to keep his customers paying $4.00 for coffee that takes 43 cents to make, all while they foreclose their houses and file for bankruptcy. So this morning, there was a girl on the corner near Copley Square, handing out $5 gift cards. At first I didn't see what she was giving away, but I smiled and made eye contact, because that's what I do. I analyze the irises of poor little creatures banished to the city streets in the name of marketing promotions. I was especially grateful when she handed me my gift card.

So this afternoon, when I left work, I decided to stop by Starbucks and treat myself to the gingersnap latte that I've been dying to try. I was delighted to find that the girl on the corner had given me not one, but two! gift cards. Double the latte, double the fun. This was a good sign. Would McLatte be back where he belongs?

It should be noted there is a Starbucks right near where my internship is, but I rarely go there, because McLatte's ghost does not linger in those walls. So, I headed to my old haunt, placed my order, and waited for the barista to make my drink. He seemed backed up, so I texted Ashley that H.M. was officially gone, never to be heard from again, and oh, woe is me, how will I ever go on?

I hit send, and McLatte LITERALLY COMES RIGHT AROUND THE CORNER. He is dressed in street clothes, and had been talking to a manager in the atrium area that adjoins the store. McLatte didn't see me, and he headed for the door. I watched him walk in the direction of the train station I go to... could McLatte be commuting, like me? He slipped away into the night before Dumby McStupid could put together my gingersnap latte. As soon as the drink was made, I ran out into the street. I don't know why, because what did I think would happen? But I guess by now, you all should know about my unreasonable amount of emotional investment in this invented friendship. Clear thinking went out the window after I got my first discount.

So I crossed the street and was walking toward the station, when I felt a cool wetness on my pants. I looked down. Poop. Bird poop, on my leg. I was pooped on. In my quest to find McLatte love, I was literally shat upon. The world is laughing at me.

There are two ways to think about this. One, that it is a final sign that McLatte and I were not McMeantToBe. Or, my mother's school of thought, which says that if you are pooped on by a bird, you should buy a lottery ticket. The poop, you see, is a good luck charm.

I am curious as to your thoughts, and if you will sit with me, here, just for a moment, and picture the torture of McLatte wandering into the dark night, out of sight, as I stood waiting impatiently for my drink. And tell me in the comments... is the poop good luck, or a death certificate for my pretend romance?

Just for good measure, I don't drive to work, but if I did... could this happen?

So long, psychotic delusions. I will miss you.

I had a feeling the last time I saw him. The way he lingered after his shift was over, hesitant to leave the job he seemed to like so much. I felt a new level of electricity in his gaze, an unfamiliar urgency. It dripped from his words, when he told me he would start school again soon. I had a feeling then.

Hottie McLatte was going to leave me.

Like most amateur psychic mediums, I downplayed my intuition, told myself I was looking too much into it.

But now it's been two weeks since I last saw McLatte. New, strange men work his shift, ignorant of the fact that an integral part of their labor force is missing in action. What an anti-climactic end to the pseudo-romance I blogged about for you, dear readers. Our spark ended in a desperate fizzle.

I am reminded now of an oft-quoted poem, which serves as a comment not only on the cycles of nature, but also the undulations of every day life. Robert Frost's words are so apropos for this romance that blossomed as the crisp autumn leaves turned brilliant reds and golds, and then faded away as those same leaves fell to the ground, curled and crunchy, their vibrance only a memory.

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay

Was Robert Frost writing about McLatte, just as Kristin Chenoweth sang about him? We will never know. I do know that I will miss McLatte dearly, his playful conversation, his easy smile.

Most of all, I will miss those discounts.

Everything's the same back in my little town

As you know, I took a semester off from college. I apparently took leave of my senses and thought it would be a wise idea to live at home for the fall. I could work and intern, all while making some money (not) and gaining more professional experience. While it was certainly nice to save myself a semester's tuition bill, other aspect haven't been so sweet.

I think I'm most tired of explaining what it is exactly I'm doing. People see me around town, and either a) think I dropped out or b) graduated and have done nothing but hang around and work the dead-end same jobs I always did. So I get a lot of hairy eye balls and awkward stares, and when someone asks and I explain the situation, they are disbelieving my story. How did I have enough credits to just leave? What am I running away from? They figure it's much more likely I got busted for something bad or failed out of college, shaming the family name.

The other deleterious aspect of this homeward sojourn is the toll it takes on my social life. Principally the problem is that I no longer have one. All of my friends are in Syracuse, and it's not exactly like my suburban bubble has a bustling nightlife scene. While downing a pint with the locals is certainly an option, I'm more of a "let's drink too much and embarrass ourselves in the company of strangers kind of gal." The hardest part of all of this is being apart from the people I like to be around the most. There are lots of times when I really wanted to relay an anecdote to Connie or complain to Paige about something related to the self-torture that is journalism. Thankfully there's the Internet, so we keep in touch, but sometimes I long for an afternoon spent in the cozy confines of Funk 'N Waffles wtih my nearest and dearest. And I am sure they really miss getting their butts whipped at Bananagrams.

To be fair, I've gained a few things by being home this semester. Mainly I have another line to add to my resume, this time a credible publication people will recognize. I dipped my feet in the churning waters of the real world, and depending on the day, my crippling lack of confidence in my professional future is either somewhat lessened or multiplied by a factor of 10. Stepping out of the protective bubble of a college campus has helped me think more critically about what I really see myself doing in the future. (I said it helps me think; I certainly haven't made any decisions.) I've realized I need to be honest, and not try to force myself into a career because I think it would be the easier, or "right" thing to do.

I have also read more books for pleasure than I have in the last four years at college. The two-plus hours I spend each day commuting allow me to read about a book a week. This may sound like a stupid thing to list as a pro of living at home and dropping out of college, but I certainly value it. And they say to become a writer, you have to read a lot of good writing, so I like to tell myself it's educational.

The last aspect of my somewhat-impromptu sabbatical (got fifteen minutes? fill out those withdrawal papers!) is that it has made me appreciate my college experience so much more. I'm not exactly a recruiter for Syracuse University, and at times I've been rather disenchanted with the whole thing. But after getting a taste of what life could be like after graduation (poverty-stricken, boring), I am prepared to live up my last semester to the fullest. This is our last chance to be irresponsible, to be surrounded by friends, and in a place where it's OK to routinely drink on school nights instead of taking a shower (don't ask). I am exceptionally eager to come back. I hope you guys are ready for me.

Showering, manners, and other advice for commuters

Yesterday, The Boston Globe ran a story about the the MBTA announcing a courtesy campaign for riders of the trains and subways in and around Boston. They hope that posting signs with cheery slogans like "Don't be a lout, let them out," or "Don't Drone on the Phone" will keep people from being assholes on public transit.

I spent much of the afternoon yesterday reading the comments that Bostonians left on the article-- ranging from uplifting stories about people offering seats to those who needed them more, to incredible ones about someone's dog defecating in a subway car, the owner refusing to pick it up. I should say that I find most commuters to be quite reasonable, but the trains have become more crowded lately, and some problems have arisen. Last night, on the train home, there were two passengers sitting in a three-person seat. A third guy came along and asked to sit down, and the guy in the middle, stood up, huffed and puffed, gathered his things and muttered "asshole," loud enough for everyone to hear. I said to the guy who wanted a seat, "How dare you, thinking you could fit three people into a three-seater?" He smiled, but I could tell he was shaken. In an effort to improve relations for everyone involved, here's a top 10.

Top 10 Tips for T Transit- Put a Little Love In Your Heart

10. Everyone take a shower. I've spent more than one nasty subway trip with my nose stuffed into some guy's rancorous armpit. Do us a favor and work up a good lather before you think about subjecting me to your natural musk.
9. Babies have every right to ride the subway! But parents, if your precious cherub has a stroller in which I could comfortably recline my 5'8" frame, please collapse it before you board.
8. Please move aside so I can grab onto the poll (insert crass joke here). The T drivers are notorious for slamming on their breaks and sending passengers flying, and I am notorious for having less balance than Janet Jackson. Unless you want me to end up on top of your baby, or sending one of my bony elbows into your jaw, please don't wrap yourself around the pole like you're jonesing for a dollar bill.
7. If someone is old, pregant, disabled, or just looks like they need the seat more than you, get up. On more than one occasion I have seen a pregnant woman almost topple over while the subway sways, and old people stand politely for 7-8 stops while an entitled BU student sits and blares his iPod loud enough for everyone to hear.
6. If you cough, sneeze, or hack on me, I reserve the right to do the same to you, or at least punch you in the kidneys.
5. Move into the damn car. Lately people have been standing immediately inside the doors and refusing to move further into the train. You are not going to miss your stop if you stand more than six inches away from the door. On more than one occasion, I've stepped off the train to let people off, only to be cut off by those people getting on, and left on the platform waiting for the next train.
4. Note to the T drivers, it is not appropriate for you to say you "don't know," when a tourist asks you how to get some place. You should know. Or at the very least, go to the subway map and help them find out. You are paid to know. It is really your only function.
3. Take your backpack off. If you slam me in the abdomen one more time with your text-book laden parcel, I'll be forced to do the same to you. But with a knife.
2. Perfume. This is a big issue for me. I am allergic to probably 80 percent of women's perfumes. If they don't succeed in making my face blotchy, nose runny and eyes coke-addict red, they at least make me sniffly and uncomfortable. I know I can't tell you not to wear any perfume but maybe, given the fact we're going to be together in a small train car for a 50-minute commute, you could limit yourself to three spritzes or fewer, and bring some along in your tote for later.
1. Put your cell phone away. Last week on the train home, I heard a man on the phone with his bank or credit card company, who charged him after he had canceled an account. I was privy to his 30-minute rantings to a poor associate, as well as when he threatened a lawsuit and demanded all of the tapes of his conversations and copies of his records from a manager. I must admit I was interested by the conversation, but I think the napping people around me were not impressed. Save financial issues, messy breakups, and everything else for later when you can rant and rave in private. Or else I might blog about the gritty details.

How can I get a barista to fall in love with me and also make my drink correctly?

I'm about to confess an embarassing fact. I have an awkward schoolgirl crush on a Starbucks employee. Not only that, but I convinced myself that together, McLatte and I have stolen a few moments of prolonged, frothy eye contact. I even thought he greeted me with a special smile the next time I came in. He held onto my cup a couple of second longer, and it gave me the sort of start that usually only happens after my sixth shot of espresso. But now that he has whetted my appetite with his soulful stares, I have a dillemma.

Today, while I waited extra patiently for my tall non-fat cappuccino, I fell deeper in love while he engaged a little boy (outfited completely in Red Sox apparel!) in conversation. He asked him his name and shook his hand. I tried not to stare like a creeper, but once the boy left, I couldn't help but notice that Hotty McLatte neglected to put any steamed milk in my cappucinno, and instead, just heaped ridiculous amounts of foam on top of the espresso. It would be hyperbolic to say it really bothered me; as you well know, I love a strong cup of espresso. But in this case, it's simply not what I ordered. So, next time I go to my bustling Back Bay 'Bucks location, and confront my coffee cutie, which line do you think is most effective:

-I was wondering if you are as strong as you make your cappuccinos.
-I apologize for being so distracting. Was it my good looks or sharp intellect that kept you from making my drink correctly?
-I know what you were thinking-- why steam the milk when you're already steaming up the room!

Any other suggestions?

Sacrificing my integrity so you don't have to be bothered.

One of my favorite things about the never-ending sketchfest called Craigslist is its "missed connections" section. This is where dozens of people, who are likely emotionally imblanced or sex starved, post notes to strangers they saw on the street, train, or anywhere else. In a pleasing display of romanticism, they leave these notes on the board and hope the missed connection will read the message. Then, the two will live happily ever after. Or at least go on a really creepy date. I bring you, the best of the Boston area's "missed connections" from this week, written by men to women.

I saw you today (about 4pm or so) browsing in China Fair on Mass Ave.
I tried to make eye contact and smile, but I don't think it worked :(

Okay, this person clearly doesn't understand missed connections. If she never even saw you, how would she know this message is about her? Dumbass.

I admire this second man's attention to wardrobe:

The second I got on the train at Copley and noticed your warm smile, I was smitten. I sorta smiled when I saw that you were enjoying music on your ipod touch so much you were "boppin" your head to it. Seemed like you were enjoying yourself. I was dying to ask you what you were listening to. And I saw the chance to, when that seat opened up right next to you. Instead I froze up, and watched another guy ( the one with the mowhawk )sit in that seat. The seat I should have grabbed.
You got off at Bu east. Thought I'd look out the window to wave if I saw you. But that would not be my luck. Taking your heart-warming beauty with you. Yet leaving some of your positive vibes with me. Thank you , you made my night :)
You wore your blonde hair in pigtails. Had a pair of smooth ocean/sky-blue droplet earrings. A light-cream almost sleeveless top. The shoulders were flared. Flared ,light blue jeans. With a pair of white flip flops.

I was the guy with dreadlocks who was being foolishly shy :)

At least this guy was made a better citizen by his missed connection:

To the girl who talked me into voting again I would love to sit down and chat sometime. I know a great place for fruit drinks

Fruit drinks? Okay, well if I am going to sit through a date with a guy who didn't have the balls to ask me out in real life, I am going to need something a little punchier. And finally, someone who hates Boston (there are people like that?!).

I think Boston is filled with these species and I find it hard to understand them! I just moved here and surprised at their snobbish behavior.

I bet you all wish to kick us all out of here! Right?

And this is happening to me who is no wanker! God knows how the common man is surviving here:).

Maybe next week I'll set up a sting operation to catch one of the hookers from the erotic section. There is really nothing I won't do for this blog.