Spouse and I made a quick – well it was supposed to be quick – trip to the mall this afternoon; her wedding band and engagement ring have been suffering mightily, we believe from the riding Spouse does, and our mission was to deliver the subject jewellery for repair. The staff at the store had a good deal of uncertainty as to how to fill out the appropriate forms, which resulted in a much longer visit to the jewellery store than we had wanted or needed (I am trying to get some work done for tomorrow, and didn’t need an extended sojourn in some crappy mall jewellery store). Complicating the transaction was the head jewellery store lady’s involvement with two folks who came into the store before our business could be completed; it seemed to me that the woman was trying to buy a watch for the fellow I assumed to be her husband. Lucky hubby was a VERY picky fellow, though, and needed to be shown approximately 678 different watches, and moreover needed the competing and contrasting features of each timepiece explained to him in minute detail. His indecision and the consequent delay of our transaction, I have to admit, was getting me a little cranky. We left grumbling a bit about the sixty bucks the repairs were likely to cost us. We resolved never to return to that jeweller after these repairs have been completed.
Then we went downstairs for a food court lunch, though, and burger seemed to brighten my mood somewhat, as prophesied by Mike. We popped into Gymboree to get some fun clothes for a friend’s soon-to-be-arriving baby. The sign outside the store said, “Baby Sale $10” and Spouse told the clerk we would like to purchase a child. The clerk laughed and (probably) lied to us when we asked her how many times she had heard that joke before. A little while later, I pointed to a nearby display of submarine and octopus emblazoned underwear and inquired whether they were available in a Men’s 40.
The clerk laughed again and we walked out of there quite pleased to have purchased six and a half square centimetres of fabric for sixty-five bucks plus tax.
See what customer service can do for you, retailers of North America?
Hey, I claim prior art on that Baby Sale joke! Plus I admit that despite being all kinds of snob regarding watches, my favorite watch is still probably the Timex I killed through excessive perspiration over four years of hard wear in college (I really really wanted one of those Indiglo watches). On the other hand, due to yep-they’re-from-the-70’s styling, I do like the Seiko Advan and Vanac lines.
But back to the topic at hand … we actually boycott restaurants with bad service. Our little way of getting back at the hands that feed us, but oddly, I feel all kinds of guilty leaving scanty tips, so I’ll leave a decent amount and then never eat there again. From the “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you DO YOUR JOB” waitress who ignored us and our polite waves to the “I’m going to snap” waiter who testily flubbed our order — twice — and blamed us, they all got good tips, but no repeat visits.
When I was younger, I worked a few summers in restaurants – bussing tables at first then bartending. I think all restaurant survivors end up ridiculously good tippers – but extremely critical of deficient service.