Can I Help You?

         

Maybe it was the complete chaos of Black Friday (and Saturday and Sunday) and the televised wars between shoppers that got me thinking about customer service.  Or, in the case of many stores, the lack of customer service.  And I’m not talking about “I’ll Give You a Black Eye Friday” here but the regular weekly shopping days.

          Oh, there are sales clerks.  Plenty of those…usually found guarding the cash register…but actually helpful people with a pulse to assist in the purchase of an item?  Not so much.

          It used to be that when you took a couple of garments into the dressing room, a sales person would hover outside the door to see if you might require a different size to try on.  Now, if a garment doesn’t fit, you have the choice of getting dressed again, stumbling back into the store, or trying to catch someone’s eye at the dressing room door while hiding your underwear only clad body behind a rack of someone else’s returns.

          And how about wanting an item sitting up on a top shelf?  Signs prohibit you from actually lifting the item off the shelf yourself…you need to ask a sales assistant for help.  Well try to find one baby.  I’ve practically grown roots waiting for someone to arrive after being told ‘I’ll get an assistant for you,’ by a cash register guard. Then trying not to burst out laughing when the ‘someone’ turned out to be a young lad who was about six inches shorter than me and about half my weight.  I wondered if I was strong enough to break his fall if he dropped to the floor under the weight of the box of fuzzy slippers.

          There are stores however, who obviously hold ‘customer sensitivity’ training on a regular basis.  This seems to be to show customers that their store’s employees really want to help you.  You can tell which stores have just had their yearly dose of this training by the number of sales people who greet you with a huge smile and a ‘good morning,’ the moment your foot steps inside their territory.  That’s very nice…albeit a little offputting if you’ve had to respond to nine ‘good mornings’ by the time you’ve traversed the first floor and you’ve still got two floors to go!

          But the one I like best is ‘did you find everything you needed?’  This is usually asked by the cashier at a grocery store checkout, while busily scanning your groceries into a bag.   Rarely is there any eye contact.

          This was my experience last week:

          ‘Did you find everything you needed?’

          ‘No, I didn’t.’

          ‘Oh, that’s good.’

          Huh?  Obviously, that store’s customer service training includes asking the question.  It doesn’t appear to include listening to the answer, and then making sure the needed item is made available.

          I don’t know.  Back in the day, ‘Can I help you?’ was the standard request from most sales assistants.  At least with them you knew where you stood.  Today’s sales people greet you with a smile, inquire about your health, and then disappear back to their inevitable guard dog duties.

          What about you?  ‘Are you being served?’

         

           

         

Giving Thanks

         

          Growing up in Australia there were many American holidays or celebrations I was never involved in, or, aware of only minimally.  The obvious ones being 4^th July, Memorial Day (although Aussie’s do have a similar holiday in Anzac Day) and, my favorite, Thanksgiving.

          Of course I knew stuff about it.  I’d read about the Indians and the Americans’ first Thanksgiving in grade school and seen the day celebrated in movies.  Although in those Technicolor offerings, there was never any mention of the poor old Indians.  But there was the giant turkey, the mouthwatering pies, the table beautifully decorated with autumn leaves and candles; and Doris Day singing and dancing around the kitchen with a gravy boat clutched in her hand.

          I loved the way Americans decorated even their homes for the holiday.  Pumpkins, dried flowers and ribbons scattered on the front porch and windowsills.  I thought it was a very pretty day and often wished we had something like it in Australia.

On the other hand, given the fact that Oz was built and populated by convicted criminals, I guess there really wasn’t that much to jump for joy about…or for that matter give thanks.  Except perhaps by the criminals who escaped.

          However, this year I will be celebrating Thanksgiving with friends who have a son recently graduated as a Marine.  He will be home for the holiday and I’m looking forward to seeing him again.

          Josh is not the typical picture of a Marine.  He is smaller than most lads his age and perhaps less physically endowed.  He had wanted to be a marine even as a young boy and worked hard at ROTC training and privately, after school, to learn everything he could about the Corps.  For years, he awoke earlier than the rest of the household to give himself at least 30 minutes on weight training equipment before attending school.

          Boot camp was tough.  It is a hard job to walk twenty miles with a 100lb pack on your back if you’re 6’1”…it is an entirely different thing to carry the same weight, walk the same distance when you barely scrape 5’2”. But Josh persevered and he won.   His proud parents couldn’t stop smiling at his graduation ceremony last February.

          And so this Thanksgiving I will be sitting at the same table as Josh…his last day home on leave before he deploys overseas…and I will give thanks.  Thanks for young men like Josh, who dreamed big and then accomplished their dreams.  And thanks for their spirit which could put them in harm’s way so that I can live in freedom.   To all the young men and women who protect me, my home and my country, I thank you.  Semper Fi!

         

         

I'm Sorry, So Sorry ...

          Why are public apologies the suddenly politically correct requirement of everyone who so much as looks cross-eyed at a co-worker or glares at a rude sales assistant? 

          Don’t get me wrong.  I think an honest, sincere apology to someone whom you’ve hurt is a good thing.  A necessary show of humility that clears the air and gives the recipient an opportunity to forgive.  But surely it should be left to the two people concerned and not turned into a ‘let’s see who can grovel the best’ reality show.

          Why is it the business of anyone but the parties concerned?  What difference should an apology, whether it was given or for that matter received, make to a complete outsider?

          Recently, I’ve heard the talking heads on TV, suggest that a congressman who played hankie pankie with a lady not his wife, should apologize.  Then days later chiding the same man for being a bit slow in the apology department…he hadn’t hung his head in public shame yet, nor begged forgiveness.

As I sat open-mouthed listening to the poor schnook’s life being dissected by complete strangers, I couldn’t help but wonder to whom was he supposed to apologize?  Everyone who ever knew him?  The TV people who were ripping him to shreds because he hadn’t beaten himself senseless as yet?

Who?  Well, certainly not to me.  I didn’t have a horse in that particular race.  And, I’m pretty sure the wife in question would prefer to hear her husband’s excuses and ‘mia culpas’ in the privacy of their home and not as a headline in the national newspapers.

But, the need for public apology is not just for participants of marital indiscretions anymore.  Judges on a TV dance show were castigated for ‘being unkind’ to a truly woeful contestant.  The opinion of outsiders was that the judges…professionals in their own right, should apologize to the contestant.  The guy couldn’t dance and being dragged around the dance floor by his professional partner was painful to watch.  Why make the judges the culprits in this little saga?  And believe me, an apology, public or otherwise. would not suddenly make the gentleman in question a Mr. Twinkle-Toes.

          Now too it seems that a public apology is some sort of standard by which the rest of the populous will judge the culprit to be worthy, of not just forgiveness, but, life in general.  If the apology appears heartfelt…a tear sliding down a cheek is always good at this point…and the words don’t sound too rehearsed, the arbiters of forgiveness will sagely nod their collective heads and agree that ‘he should be given another chance.’

          But, poor soul, this will not be the end of it all.  For at least several years, his apology and forgiveness will be held up as model for others to emulate.

          ‘Tiger didn’t apologize for weeks, you know.  He should have done it the moment it came to light.  So John is really a much better person.’

          ‘Yep, he apologized the moment he was found out.’

          ‘Mmmm.  A much more sincere person.’

          All that could be heard from me when this little exchange hit my eardrums was a giant thud as my body hit the floor.  So now even sincerity is to be judged by the speed at which public apologies are dished out.  The fact that the apology was required at all seems to be lost on the politically correct population.

          I’m so sorry for this post.  I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.  Hey, sincere enough?

           

         

         

Damaged Goods

          I have an aversion to trying on clothes in stores.  The lights in the dressing rooms are hideously bright and herculean efforts to suck in the tummy, pull up the ribcage and look like you did 20 years ago, fall by the wayside.  So my usual system is to pick out a few garments, take them home and hope they fit.  Of course if I’ve conned myself into thinking that the two days I ate only cardboard and broccoli stumps have dropped me down at least a dress size, there are obvious garment returns in my future

          I was thinking along these lines as I fumbled through the sale rack at Macy’s the other day.  And that of course got me thinking about the times I’ve had to return items that were damaged or just didn’t fit and the hoops I sometimes had to jump through to be reimbursed.

          There was a time I’d bought a packet of three pairs of knickers from a chain store.  Three pairs for $6…what a deal!  The packet was sealed, and a sign on the product table warned that packets were not to be opened under pain of death.  Also, having escaped death, you’d better not even think of returning anything in the intimate apparel department anyway because the resulting leg irons would be uncomfortable.  Okay, I understood that, of course.  No one wants to buy another person’s used underwear, right?  Not a problem.

          However, once home with my new, silk-like material knickers, I discovered that two of them had inch wide runs right down the back.  My bum would certainly be feeling a draught in those little babies.  So, back to the store with my packet of panties.

Now, one might wonder why bother for an item that cost a measly $6.  But it was the principle of the thing.  If the store wanted to assign rules to the purchase of their stuff, they should at least back up their rules with unmarred goods and a little common sense.  My logical argument being that, since the knickers were so damaged as to be useless, therefore unsaleable to anyone else, the ‘no returns on intimate apparel’ rule shouldn’t apply.  The sales assistant didn’t agree.

          ‘See the sign?’ she pointed to the large poster plastered on the wall.

          ‘Yep.’

          ‘What’s it say?’

          ‘Doesn’t matter what it says.  These knickers have runs in them so you can’t sell them to anyone else anyway.’

          ‘You shoulda checked ‘em out before youse bought ‘em then.’

          ‘Couldn’t.’  I pointed to the sign on the table.  ‘See the sign?’

          ‘Are youse bein’ smart then?’

          ‘No,’ I sighed.  ‘Just frustrated.’

          It was obvious that our conversation was going to continue in circles with the sales assistant holding her ground and me pointing out that her ground was very muddy.  Even a call for the manager produced little joy.  She too kept pointing to the signs.

          I eventually wrote a strong letter of complaint to the corporate office…again, it was the principle of the thing!

          Several weeks later I was summoned from my office to the front desk where a gentleman carrying a rather large suitcase greeted me.  He was from the chain store’s corporate office and had been instructed to offer me six packets of knickers of my choice and of course free of charge.  And with that he threw open the suitcase and presented me with a dazzling array of knickers…all styles and colors.   Wow, eighteen pairs of knickers for what was the original price of $6!  I was more than pleased to acquiesce to the gentleman’s request.

          I have to wonder though…what kind of job description is it that has men walking around town carrying suitcases full of colored knickers?  But I’m not complaining…if customers have to obey dumb signs, then Dispenser of Colored Knickers should be a job category at every chain store's corporate office.

         

Let's Hear it For the (Tall) Girls

          Last week, after being measured as part of a bone density exam, I discovered I was 5’6” tall.

Huh?  What happened to the other inch that has been the bane of my life since my early teens?  Just where did that little sucker go?  And, for that matter, why disappear now when it’s essentially a non event in my life?

Preparing for my first school dance at age thirteen was the beginning of my tallness trauma.  We had been informed by the headmaster that there would be no wallflowers at the dance.  All boys would dance with all girls in turn, no excuses!

I was mortified therefore, as I was dragged around the dance floor by boys whose eye level was no higher than my chin.  And, since this put their Brillcream plastered down hair right under my nose, I spent most of the night trying not to gag.  I also could have done without their version of hysterical humor.

‘What’s the weather like up there?’ and ‘You married to the jolly green giant are ya?’ spring to mind as examples of their wit.

For years my mother kept assuring me that being a tall girl was a good thing.  I should be pleased.

‘Look at all the short girls who would love to have your height?’

Really?  I wondered who they might be.  Certainly not the 5’2”s who were lining up boyfriends like nine pins while I sat at home and let down the hem of another skirt.  At the time the only advantage I could see was being able to reach stuff on the top shelf of my kitchen cabinet.  Big deal!

As I moved into my later teens and early twenties and started on a brief modeling career, my height became an advantage.  That and the fact that I was a true, skinny beanpole.  I barely weighed more than the clothes I was expected to show, usually in department store parades. 

In those days, runway models were a very much different breed.

It seems that showing a garment today requires a tall, grumpy looking young woman…the grumpier looking the better…who struts down the runway ready to kick an audience member’s face in if they so much as look away or  make a slight comment.  The models usually walk at warp speed so that trying to see any detail on a garment is a lost art and buyers are left hoping they saw what they thought they saw.

I’ve often wondered if the grumpies zot up and down the runway so fast because they actually think the garments they’re showing are hideous and so want to get off and away from audience eyes as quickly as possible. Or perhaps it’s the designers who instruct their models to move so quickly.

‘Really move it. Don’t let anyone see your bum showing through the back panel or we won’t sell a thing.’  It could be the case.

Back in my modeling days, the greatest asset a model had was the ability to glide down the runway beautifully, as though walking on air, taking time to make eye contact with the audience and actually smiling.  The idea was to show prospective buyers how gorgeous that particular garment was and how beautiful they would look in it if they would only fork out the required loot for its purchase. 

However, as I tried to move from local store parades to something a little higher up the modeling ladder, my height once again came into play.  This time because I was lacking in the inches department.  A 5’7” beanpole might be all right for the local stores, but Fashion Week parades or the prestigious Wool Board shows, required at least another couple of inches.  And no matter how much I tried to stretch myself up to at least 5’8’, neither my spine nor my legs would cooperate.  I was doomed to stay at a measly 5’7” for what I thought was the rest of my life.

But, apparently that is not to be.  As the years pile on it appears that the inches of my height sag downwards along with the rest of my bits and pieces.  So you 5’2”s had better watch out.  It won’t be long before I’m at your level and we can discuss what the weather is like down there.