|
|
29.10.10
I called one of the big internet providers to sign up for home service. The reviews out there are equally voiciferous in bashing the major players. I've dealt with one over cell phone issues, which were resolved without too much hassle, but getting there at all was a pain. I wasn't expecting much here.
I made the call around 6pm, after work. I got put into the line, listening to a year-old dance hit. I suppose it was better than elevator music or dead air, anything to keep your mind from wandering to the fact that you're waiting to give them your money. After a couple minutes I got a real person who was very pleasant. She explained the various promotions going, and due to my cell phone being with the same company (even on the lowest possible service level), she gave me a discount for both the promotional period and the regular monthly rate. Colour me pleased. I also gave her my birthdate for their information.
"Happy birthday," she said.
"I'm sorry?"
"Happy birthday. I guess I'm a little early."
"Oh, that's very nice, thank you."
We worked out some logistics, and it turns out a technician needs to be sent to the building to hook something up, which delays the process a bit. "I'll give you your first month free," she offered by way of compensation.
She also found me a non-convoluted user name and set up automatic billing on the spot. I don't know if this is just their sales end, but I was very happy with my customer service experience. Let's hope I like their internet service.
19.10.10
In retrospect, Thanksgiving weekend may not have been the best time to do my stocking-up grocery shopping. Whoever decided to put baking needs, gravy mix, and spices in the same aisle should have to stand there all day today in the snarl of shopping carts and once-a-year cooks searching the shelves for that one ingredient they will never use again in their lives. I needed flour and sugar; big bags requiring a cart and some room. Much jockeying, reckless driving, and mental swearing got me the goods.
Brussels sprouts (yes, that is how you spell it) were having their moment in the sun; a prominent place in the produce section and a crowd of people energetically grabbing. A satellite station of sprouts sat off to one side, rewarding the observant shopper with less chaotic access to cruciferous vegetables.
I passed one of those low, open refrigerated cases, the kinds usually filled with a mix of frozen foods. This time, the entire unit, on both sides, was filled with cartons of whipping cream. If heaven were a grocery store, that is how it would look.
Major props to the staff with the thankless job of standing in the middle of the melee doing the equivalent of air traffic control. One woman was responding to requests by shouting out aisle numbers, though everything people asked for seemed to be in aisle 14; baking needs, gravy mix, and spices. Eventually I gave up on the cart, leaving it in a gap in the comparatively deserted cleaning products section and doing short recon missions on foot. Cutlery tray, check; bulk pack of paper towels, check; ingredients for dinner, check.
The other shoppers were a mix of the battle-hardened suburban parents with shopping carts full of children, a younger crowd buying crimped aluminum roasting pans, and an older generation speaking a panoply of languages while assembling items for a hybrid feast of Thanksgiving.
|
|
©d.tan  |
