Today is the day that the Sears appliance repairman was originally (rather, most recently) scheduled to work on our refrigerator. Earlier this week, someone from Sears called and said that it will be NEXT Friday, October 7, before the repairman comes.
I haven't heard the noise in a while. Maybe the freezer fan isn't making the noise, anymore, or maybe I've grown so accustomed to it that I just don't hear it, anymore.
In any case, it will soon be a month since I made the first call requesting repair service.
Friday, September 30, 2011
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Sears, Part II
The saga continues.
The Sears repairman came on September 6, about 1 p.m. Naturally, the refrigerator was not making the offending noise when he arrived. I explained to him that my diagnosis was that there was frost building up on the freezer fan, and that the blades eventually knocked off the ice for a time, then it would build up again. He said he suspected that I was absolutely right, since it is a common problem. He said that the culprit was the half-tube that feeds water into the ice-maker. Since it's only a half tube (like a mini-water slide), water splashes when it squirts into the ice-maker. He slipped a whole piece of tube over the existing half-tube, and said that oughta do it.
The fridge started making the noise again this weekend; this time, it's a serious snarl instead of a low purr.
Today, I took a deep breath, and dialed the Sears repair service again. The deep breath was to keep me from going all ape-shit on them right off the bat. After giving the customer service rep. all of the necessary info, we began to talk about appointment times. I took another deep breath and said, "Can we talk, girl to girl?" She said we could. I told her about the crap we've been through, so far, with this refrigerator. My main complaint was that the repair service historically hasn't done what it said it would do, when it said it would do it. I asked her to please flag the call, somehow, to let these people know that I'm already irked. She said she would.
I can't get a repair appointment until September 30, 10 days from now. The time will be between 8 and 5. They're supposed to call 30 minutes in advance of coming.
We'll see.
Meanwhile, I have video-taped the freezer with my cell phone, to capture the noise. I've also taken snapshots of the freezer contents, because if this problem is as big as it's beginning to sound, Sears may have to buy me some groceries.
The Sears repairman came on September 6, about 1 p.m. Naturally, the refrigerator was not making the offending noise when he arrived. I explained to him that my diagnosis was that there was frost building up on the freezer fan, and that the blades eventually knocked off the ice for a time, then it would build up again. He said he suspected that I was absolutely right, since it is a common problem. He said that the culprit was the half-tube that feeds water into the ice-maker. Since it's only a half tube (like a mini-water slide), water splashes when it squirts into the ice-maker. He slipped a whole piece of tube over the existing half-tube, and said that oughta do it.
The fridge started making the noise again this weekend; this time, it's a serious snarl instead of a low purr.
Today, I took a deep breath, and dialed the Sears repair service again. The deep breath was to keep me from going all ape-shit on them right off the bat. After giving the customer service rep. all of the necessary info, we began to talk about appointment times. I took another deep breath and said, "Can we talk, girl to girl?" She said we could. I told her about the crap we've been through, so far, with this refrigerator. My main complaint was that the repair service historically hasn't done what it said it would do, when it said it would do it. I asked her to please flag the call, somehow, to let these people know that I'm already irked. She said she would.
I can't get a repair appointment until September 30, 10 days from now. The time will be between 8 and 5. They're supposed to call 30 minutes in advance of coming.
We'll see.
Meanwhile, I have video-taped the freezer with my cell phone, to capture the noise. I've also taken snapshots of the freezer contents, because if this problem is as big as it's beginning to sound, Sears may have to buy me some groceries.
Friday, September 16, 2011
New York, New York - 9/9/11 thru 9/11/11
My niece, Libby, and her finance, Jordan, invited us to their wedding in New York City on 9/10/11. When we received their "Save the Date" card and saw the date and the location of the wedding, we thought, "Have they gone mad?" Granted, "nine-ten-eleven" is a catchy date, one the groom should not have trouble remembering in years to come, but why New York City? Won't it be especially crowded, and maybe even a little dangerous?
The "why" had one main point: Libby loves NYC, specifically Brooklyn, having lived there for three years while she was in law school. And, in the good old American spirit, the thought was, "Hang the trouble-makers, they'll not keep us down."
Friday, 9/9/11
So, on 9/9/11, Joel and I, along with six other members of our family, boarded an early morning flight to New York City. My Aunt Barbara and Uncle Larry were part of our entourage. They'd never been to New York. Uncle Larry was especially excited about the trip, and he wanted to see everything - EVERYTHING - that he could see in the three days we'd be in town.
When we arrived at noon on Friday, my brother, the father of the bride, picked us up at the airport and took us to our hotel on Smith St. in Brooklyn. As we checked in, the clerk handed us cute little gift bags with tags that said, "Thanks for coming!" We peeked into the bags when we got to our rooms and found little bottles of champagne, a little bag of macarons (no, not "macaroons" - "macarons"), a map of the area, and menus from nearby restaurants. How sweet!
After stashing our bags in our rooms, the group re-assembled in the hotel lobby, then hit Smith St. in search of lunch. Not far from the hotel was a restaurant called Coco Roco. The menu on the storefront listed Peruvian dishes. "I've never had Peruvian food," I said. That settled it. "Then let's eat here," my brother said. We went inside. The food was good.
That evening, the groom's family hosted an outdoor cocktail party at Anable Basin Sailing Bar & Grill. We had been expecting drinks and light hors d'ouvres, and we'd made plans to nibble at the party, then go to Chinatown or Little Italy for a late dinner. If food had been our only consideration, we could've skipped the trip over to Manhattan; the "light hors d'ouvres" would've sufficed. I still don't know the specific names of the dishes served to us, but there were delicious little sandwiches of pork belly wrapped in pancake-like bread, sausages, corn on the cob, broccoli, pulled pork with barbeque sauce, and several other treats that I did not get around to trying.
As the sun set, the view of Manhattan across the water was amazing.
We left the party around 8 p.m., went back to our hotel to swap our dress shoes for walking shoes. With maps in hand, we headed for the subway. I shall (mostly) refrain from teasing my brother about his map-reading skills. I shall simply say that we walked quite a long way before finding a subway entrance, and that men, in general, seem unnecessarily reluctant to ask passers-by for directions. ;)
Chinatown almost made me puke. For real. Oh, it was an amazing sight, for sure. But the smell of old, rotting fish was almost more than my constitution could bear. I put my hand over my nose and mouth, but it did not block out the smell or the sound of my gagging. We hurried toward the next corner, anxious for the sight of green, red, and white decorations that would signal Little Italy.
Maitre d's attacked us as we entered Little Italy. We escaped several of them before one snagged us and dragged us into his restaurant. The waiters quickly pieced together a table for 12, and we sat down to a very good Italian dinner.
Back at the hotel, I showered and fell into bed. It was only 11 p.m., but I'd been up since 5 a.m., and my feet were aching from all the walking. Sleep did not come as rapidly or deeply as I expected. Country bumpkins normally sleep in quiet places, where the only sounds that can be heard (aside from house noises) come from insects and frogs. The city dwellers among us may not have even noticed the symphony of noise coming from the street, but I heard every horn blast and siren.
Saturday, 9/10/11 - Wedding Day
After breakfast, we headed back to the subway to get to Times Square, where we bought tickets for a double-decker bus tour of the city. Times Square was writhing with people. The sights on the billboards are almost more than one brain can process. As I stood there, numb with visual overload, I doubted that the founders of the city could ever have imagined what it would become in 400 years.
But, oh, the weather was perfect, and when we climbed aboard the bus and snaked our way to the top deck, life was good. We did the "downtown" tour this day, going past Rockefeller Center, the Empire State Building, Macy's - all the tourist destinations. Uncle Larry most wanted to see the Statue of Liberty, so when we reached Battery Park, we left the bus and took a round-trip ride on the Staten Island Ferry to see her from afar. After that, we got back on the bus and went back downtown in search of gen-u-ine New York pizza. When lunch was over, the group split up, with some going shopping and others going back to the hotel to rest and dress for the wedding.
The ceremony happened in the Dumbo area (which I later learned stands for "Down Under Manhattan Bridge Overlook"), in a tiny park between the Brooklyn Bridge and the Manhattan Bridge. We assembled on the slate steps at the water's edge, where the bride and groom sneaked in a quick vow-saying between the rumbles of passing trains. The bride's brother had passed out a basket of wooden train whistles, and we merrily honked our whistles as the newlyweds enjoyed their first kiss(es) as husband and wife. With the legal formalities done, we scurried across the street to the Smack Mellon Gallery for the reception.
The sign outside said "Eat, Drink, and Be Married!" What a fun party it was! Food, booze, music and dancing. There was "Connect Four," and "Operation," and a Ms. Pac-Man video game. There was a photo booth where we grabbed masks, plastic moustaches, and eyeglasses on sticks and acted goofy while a photographer snapped our pictures. We had a great time.
Sunday - 9/11/11
Since we didn't have to be at the airport for the flight home until 3 p.m., and since our bus tour tickets were good for 48 hours, and since we hadn't had time on Saturday to do the "uptown" tour, back to Manhattan we went. A tour bus was loading as we emerged from the subway. Seeing that it was almost full, already, we asked the tour guide, a cute little octogenarian, if there was room for 8 of us on her bus. "Yes, of course!" she said. "But no talking on the tour!" I looked at her as if she'd sprouted a second head. "I mean it!" she insisted. "No talking, and no cell phones!" I could see right away that she might need to be thrown from the bus before this tour was over.
Off we went - past Central Park, over to Harlem, past rows of burned-out tenement houses, around to 5th Avenue, past rows of mansions and museums - and all the while our cute little tour-nazi was informing us, not so much with facts and dates, but with stories about the buildings and the people who lived in them. "Don't look for it," she would say, as she began the next story, "we're not there, yet!" "Slow down, Miguel!" she would call to the driver from the top deck. "Now, Miguel, go slowwww-ly forward...a little more...a little more...there! Ladies and gentlemen, there's your picture!"
We didn't have to throw her off the bus, after all. :)
Lunch at a corner deli fortified us for the trip home. We grabbed our bags, called a car, and headed for the airport. Our driver was from Bangladesh. He was smiling and friendly and didn't seem to mind one bit when I fired off a dozen questions to him about his home and his life, but I must admit that I did not understand all that he said.
The flight home was uneventful and arrived on time.
It was such a fun trip, but, as always, it was good to be home.
The "why" had one main point: Libby loves NYC, specifically Brooklyn, having lived there for three years while she was in law school. And, in the good old American spirit, the thought was, "Hang the trouble-makers, they'll not keep us down."
Friday, 9/9/11
So, on 9/9/11, Joel and I, along with six other members of our family, boarded an early morning flight to New York City. My Aunt Barbara and Uncle Larry were part of our entourage. They'd never been to New York. Uncle Larry was especially excited about the trip, and he wanted to see everything - EVERYTHING - that he could see in the three days we'd be in town.
When we arrived at noon on Friday, my brother, the father of the bride, picked us up at the airport and took us to our hotel on Smith St. in Brooklyn. As we checked in, the clerk handed us cute little gift bags with tags that said, "Thanks for coming!" We peeked into the bags when we got to our rooms and found little bottles of champagne, a little bag of macarons (no, not "macaroons" - "macarons"), a map of the area, and menus from nearby restaurants. How sweet!
After stashing our bags in our rooms, the group re-assembled in the hotel lobby, then hit Smith St. in search of lunch. Not far from the hotel was a restaurant called Coco Roco. The menu on the storefront listed Peruvian dishes. "I've never had Peruvian food," I said. That settled it. "Then let's eat here," my brother said. We went inside. The food was good.
That evening, the groom's family hosted an outdoor cocktail party at Anable Basin Sailing Bar & Grill. We had been expecting drinks and light hors d'ouvres, and we'd made plans to nibble at the party, then go to Chinatown or Little Italy for a late dinner. If food had been our only consideration, we could've skipped the trip over to Manhattan; the "light hors d'ouvres" would've sufficed. I still don't know the specific names of the dishes served to us, but there were delicious little sandwiches of pork belly wrapped in pancake-like bread, sausages, corn on the cob, broccoli, pulled pork with barbeque sauce, and several other treats that I did not get around to trying. 
We left the party around 8 p.m., went back to our hotel to swap our dress shoes for walking shoes. With maps in hand, we headed for the subway. I shall (mostly) refrain from teasing my brother about his map-reading skills. I shall simply say that we walked quite a long way before finding a subway entrance, and that men, in general, seem unnecessarily reluctant to ask passers-by for directions. ;)
Chinatown almost made me puke. For real. Oh, it was an amazing sight, for sure. But the smell of old, rotting fish was almost more than my constitution could bear. I put my hand over my nose and mouth, but it did not block out the smell or the sound of my gagging. We hurried toward the next corner, anxious for the sight of green, red, and white decorations that would signal Little Italy.
Maitre d's attacked us as we entered Little Italy. We escaped several of them before one snagged us and dragged us into his restaurant. The waiters quickly pieced together a table for 12, and we sat down to a very good Italian dinner.
Back at the hotel, I showered and fell into bed. It was only 11 p.m., but I'd been up since 5 a.m., and my feet were aching from all the walking. Sleep did not come as rapidly or deeply as I expected. Country bumpkins normally sleep in quiet places, where the only sounds that can be heard (aside from house noises) come from insects and frogs. The city dwellers among us may not have even noticed the symphony of noise coming from the street, but I heard every horn blast and siren.
Saturday, 9/10/11 - Wedding Day
But, oh, the weather was perfect, and when we climbed aboard the bus and snaked our way to the top deck, life was good. We did the "downtown" tour this day, going past Rockefeller Center, the Empire State Building, Macy's - all the tourist destinations. Uncle Larry most wanted to see the Statue of Liberty, so when we reached Battery Park, we left the bus and took a round-trip ride on the Staten Island Ferry to see her from afar. After that, we got back on the bus and went back downtown in search of gen-u-ine New York pizza. When lunch was over, the group split up, with some going shopping and others going back to the hotel to rest and dress for the wedding.
The ceremony happened in the Dumbo area (which I later learned stands for "Down Under Manhattan Bridge Overlook"), in a tiny park between the Brooklyn Bridge and the Manhattan Bridge. We assembled on the slate steps at the water's edge, where the bride and groom sneaked in a quick vow-saying between the rumbles of passing trains. The bride's brother had passed out a basket of wooden train whistles, and we merrily honked our whistles as the newlyweds enjoyed their first kiss(es) as husband and wife. With the legal formalities done, we scurried across the street to the Smack Mellon Gallery for the reception. 
The sign outside said "Eat, Drink, and Be Married!" What a fun party it was! Food, booze, music and dancing. There was "Connect Four," and "Operation," and a Ms. Pac-Man video game. There was a photo booth where we grabbed masks, plastic moustaches, and eyeglasses on sticks and acted goofy while a photographer snapped our pictures. We had a great time.Sunday - 9/11/11
Since we didn't have to be at the airport for the flight home until 3 p.m., and since our bus tour tickets were good for 48 hours, and since we hadn't had time on Saturday to do the "uptown" tour, back to Manhattan we went. A tour bus was loading as we emerged from the subway. Seeing that it was almost full, already, we asked the tour guide, a cute little octogenarian, if there was room for 8 of us on her bus. "Yes, of course!" she said. "But no talking on the tour!" I looked at her as if she'd sprouted a second head. "I mean it!" she insisted. "No talking, and no cell phones!" I could see right away that she might need to be thrown from the bus before this tour was over.
Off we went - past Central Park, over to Harlem, past rows of burned-out tenement houses, around to 5th Avenue, past rows of mansions and museums - and all the while our cute little tour-nazi was informing us, not so much with facts and dates, but with stories about the buildings and the people who lived in them. "Don't look for it," she would say, as she began the next story, "we're not there, yet!" "Slow down, Miguel!" she would call to the driver from the top deck. "Now, Miguel, go slowwww-ly forward...a little more...a little more...there! Ladies and gentlemen, there's your picture!" We didn't have to throw her off the bus, after all. :)
Lunch at a corner deli fortified us for the trip home. We grabbed our bags, called a car, and headed for the airport. Our driver was from Bangladesh. He was smiling and friendly and didn't seem to mind one bit when I fired off a dozen questions to him about his home and his life, but I must admit that I did not understand all that he said.
The flight home was uneventful and arrived on time.
It was such a fun trip, but, as always, it was good to be home.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
SkeeterVac Review #4
The SkeeterVac ran out of gas over 2 months ago. We were about to leave the next morning for a short vacation, and didn't want to fool with the machine. Over the next few weeks, daytime temperatures hovered around the 100-degree mark, and we didn't hang out in the yard much, so we weren't encountering any mosquitoes, anyway. Replacing the gas tank on the SkeeterVac hasn't even been in our thoughts. Now that the heat is beginning to relent, we're starting to venture out again, and since we have not had the SkeeterVac running, the mosquito population growth has been unhampered.
Last Sunday at dusk, when The Husband and I were puttering around outside, he said, "I'm going in. The 'skeeters are eating me up!"
"We need to crank the SkeeterVac back up," I commented, as I followed him inside.
Yesterday, I picked up a new gas tank. After installing it, I changed out the TacTrap and put in a fresh bait cartridge. Happily, the machine started on the first try.
You should have seen the old TacTrap. While I didn't see many mosquitoes stuck to it, I did see loads of horseflies (which I loathe more than mosquitoes), houseflies, and crickets. There was even a dried-up skink stuck to it. Sadly, there were also a couple of rows of feathers from a bird's wing. (Poor bird probably thought he'd found some easy pickin's.) All that was in the trap drawer was dust and fuzz, stuff that was in there before the gas bottle ran out.
Theoretically, I guess we're starting over in trying to decimate the mosquito population around here. Before the heat drove us indoors, we were not seeing many mosquitoes in our yard, but neither was I encountering many in the garden, which is far outside the SkeeterVac's reach. Had the SkeeterVac been doing its job, or has this simply been a slow year for 'skeeters? Hard to say. We have never seen mass quantities of mosquitoes stuck to the TacTrap or in the trap drawer - nothing that even distantly approached the drawer-full of mosquito carcasses shown in promotional videos. But we have also (until recently) not been eaten alive by mosquitoes in our yard. Perhaps the real test will come in the next few weeks, now that the mosquitoes seem to be out in force.
* * * * * *
On the gardening front, I mailed a garden soil sample to the University of Tennessee yesterday. I am hoping that the results will come back about the time the garden poops out so that I can amend the soil for next year's garden.
Monday afternoon I tilled up the green bean rows and would've done the same to the purple-hull peas except that they had a "mess" of peas still on the vines. Nanny picked them while I weeded the tomatoes. The black-eyed peas need to go, too, but their vines are massive and should be mowed, first. The butterbeans and butterpeas are still producing, so I'll leave them alone a while longer.
The squash is kaput, except for the zuccinis. The okra is still making like crazy.
The raccoons have gotten every single ear of corn, so far. I'd be mad, except that I knew when I planted the corn that the 'coons would get it. This year's corn crop, such as it was, is a dwarf variety, seeds that I bought half price at the end of the season last year. The whole plant is barely waist high, and the little ears aren't two feet off the ground; the 'coons don't even have to break a sweat to reach them. If I plant corn again next year, you can bet it's going to be giant stuff that the 'coons will have to work to get.
As for the tomatoes.... I sprayed fungicide to combat late blight over the weekend. This may sound weird, but Monday when I went to work in the garden, there already seemed to be less of that throbbing, yellow-ish glow that a full-swing blight infestation seems to emit. The top two-thirds of the tomato plants still look healthy, and the plants are still blooming, so maybe we'll get more ripe tomatoes this season.
The tomato vines have been outrageously large and lush this year, spilling over their cages and trailing onto the ground, but they haven't produced all that much fruit. I blamed it on over-fertilizing until I heard other gardeners complaining of the same issue. Uncle Jack says that he has lopped off some of his tomatoes to see what will happen, and they are doing well, so far. I'd thought about doing that, myself, and may yet try it with a couple of the plants. I'll let you know what happens.
Last Sunday at dusk, when The Husband and I were puttering around outside, he said, "I'm going in. The 'skeeters are eating me up!"
"We need to crank the SkeeterVac back up," I commented, as I followed him inside.
Yesterday, I picked up a new gas tank. After installing it, I changed out the TacTrap and put in a fresh bait cartridge. Happily, the machine started on the first try.
You should have seen the old TacTrap. While I didn't see many mosquitoes stuck to it, I did see loads of horseflies (which I loathe more than mosquitoes), houseflies, and crickets. There was even a dried-up skink stuck to it. Sadly, there were also a couple of rows of feathers from a bird's wing. (Poor bird probably thought he'd found some easy pickin's.) All that was in the trap drawer was dust and fuzz, stuff that was in there before the gas bottle ran out.
Theoretically, I guess we're starting over in trying to decimate the mosquito population around here. Before the heat drove us indoors, we were not seeing many mosquitoes in our yard, but neither was I encountering many in the garden, which is far outside the SkeeterVac's reach. Had the SkeeterVac been doing its job, or has this simply been a slow year for 'skeeters? Hard to say. We have never seen mass quantities of mosquitoes stuck to the TacTrap or in the trap drawer - nothing that even distantly approached the drawer-full of mosquito carcasses shown in promotional videos. But we have also (until recently) not been eaten alive by mosquitoes in our yard. Perhaps the real test will come in the next few weeks, now that the mosquitoes seem to be out in force.
* * * * * *
On the gardening front, I mailed a garden soil sample to the University of Tennessee yesterday. I am hoping that the results will come back about the time the garden poops out so that I can amend the soil for next year's garden.
Monday afternoon I tilled up the green bean rows and would've done the same to the purple-hull peas except that they had a "mess" of peas still on the vines. Nanny picked them while I weeded the tomatoes. The black-eyed peas need to go, too, but their vines are massive and should be mowed, first. The butterbeans and butterpeas are still producing, so I'll leave them alone a while longer.
The squash is kaput, except for the zuccinis. The okra is still making like crazy.
The raccoons have gotten every single ear of corn, so far. I'd be mad, except that I knew when I planted the corn that the 'coons would get it. This year's corn crop, such as it was, is a dwarf variety, seeds that I bought half price at the end of the season last year. The whole plant is barely waist high, and the little ears aren't two feet off the ground; the 'coons don't even have to break a sweat to reach them. If I plant corn again next year, you can bet it's going to be giant stuff that the 'coons will have to work to get.
As for the tomatoes....
The tomato vines have been outrageously large and lush this year, spilling over their cages and trailing onto the ground, but they haven't produced all that much fruit. I blamed it on over-fertilizing until I heard other gardeners complaining of the same issue. Uncle Jack says that he has lopped off some of his tomatoes to see what will happen, and they are doing well, so far. I'd thought about doing that, myself, and may yet try it with a couple of the plants. I'll let you know what happens.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Shame on You, Sears!
I have always been a fan of Kenmore appliances. Our washer, dryer, refrigerator, and dishwasher all came from Sears. One of my sewing machines is a Kenmore. We own a Craftsman lawnmower, two Craftsman tillers, and some Craftsman power tools. My 26-year-old kitchen stove (a Whirlpool that came with the house) is about to poop out, and I'd planned to replace it with a Kenmore.
Last July, our 7-year-old Kenmore refrigerator went on the fritz on a Saturday. I phoned the Sears repair hotline and scheduled an appointment for the next Monday. The repairman arrived as promised, checked out the refrigerator, and said that he would have to order parts before he could fix the 'fridge. He said the parts would arrive by Wednesday, and that he would be back on Thursday to install them. On Tuesday, the repairman called and said that the parts he needed were on back-order, and he would not be coming on Thursday. As it turned out, all of the parts arrived by Wednesday, but we had lost our place in the repair schedule. This part-ordering screw up and a series of re-scheduling screw ups resulted in us being without a refrigerator for 13 days and caused me to take several afternoons off from work, waiting on repair appointments that never happened.
A couple of months ago, The Husband bought a refrigerator service/maintenance agreement from Sears. Over a week ago, when the refrigerator's freezer fan started sporadically making a funny noise, I called the repair hotline to schedule service. I called on a Monday. Sears would have scheduled a Tuesday service appointment, but I asked them to hold off until Friday, since I would be working out of town until then and the refrigerator was still cooling adequately. They set the appointment for Friday, "between the hours of 1 and 5." They said that I would get an e-mail confirming the appointment, and that the repairman would call 30 minutes before his arrival.
Mid-morning on Friday, when I had not received a confirming e-mail, I called the repair hotline to make sure I was on the list for service. They said that they had, indeed, scheduled us for service between the hours of 1 and 5.
At 4:57 p.m., I phoned the repair hotline again. Yes, I was on the list. Yes, the repairman would call before his arrival. Evidently running behind. Blah-blah-blah. At 6:30, having not heard from a service technician, we went out to dinner.
Today is Tuesday. I have still not had a call from the repairman.
Sears, your service stinks. I realize that you contract the work and thus are even farther removed from your actual customers' needs, but somewhere in your big corporate world, the buck should stop with someone. Your service repair hotline won't/can't tell me who that person is or how to reach him/her, so I'm hereby letting you know that someone, somewhere, has dropped the ball.
Sears, doing what you say you will do is one of the basic necessities of human interaction. It is one of the fundamental principles of business. It builds trust. Trust builds customer bases. Customers build profits. You know how it works. You can't leave us out of the equation indefinitely. I understand that my refrigerator's "funny noise" is not (yet) an emergency, and that other customers may be experiencing far more serious problems that should receive attention first. Since my ice cream and 'tater tots are still frozen, I'm not all that upset that the service call has been delayed, but I am upset with the lack of communication. The service company with which you have contracted is not doing its job.
NEWS FLASH: I just phoned the Sears repair hotline to determine when the new repair appointment will be. Guess what? There is no repair appointment scheduled. Sears' notes reflect that a repairman showed up at our door at 7:01 p.m. on Friday evening, and that the homeowner cancelled the service call.
Sears, I am boiling mad. We left the house to go out to dinner around 6:30 p.m. There had been no call from the repairman to let us know he was coming, and there was no one here to answer the door or cancel the appointment when he arrived. Your contract technician has told a big, fat LIE. And guess what else? When I asked to schedule another appointment, I was told that the next available appointment was Saturday, at a time when I cannot be here. The next available appointment after that is on Tuesday, between the hours of 8 and 5. And guess what else? The telephone operator said that the repairman MAY call before his arrival, but would not guarantee it. So that means I either have to stay here all day Tuesday (when I'm supposed to be at work), or risk missing the service call. It's last year's repair ordeal, all over again.
Sears, this frosts the cake. I am done with you. When I go out to shop for a new kitchen stove, I will not be buying from you. I will be going to my local hardware store, which has an in-house repairman to service the appliances they sell. Let me tell you a story about their service. My niece bought a refrigerator from them. When it went out, this hardware store brought her a "loaner" refrigerator to use while they fixed/replaced hers. That, Sears, is service. You could learn something from them.
Last July, our 7-year-old Kenmore refrigerator went on the fritz on a Saturday. I phoned the Sears repair hotline and scheduled an appointment for the next Monday. The repairman arrived as promised, checked out the refrigerator, and said that he would have to order parts before he could fix the 'fridge. He said the parts would arrive by Wednesday, and that he would be back on Thursday to install them. On Tuesday, the repairman called and said that the parts he needed were on back-order, and he would not be coming on Thursday. As it turned out, all of the parts arrived by Wednesday, but we had lost our place in the repair schedule. This part-ordering screw up and a series of re-scheduling screw ups resulted in us being without a refrigerator for 13 days and caused me to take several afternoons off from work, waiting on repair appointments that never happened.
A couple of months ago, The Husband bought a refrigerator service/maintenance agreement from Sears. Over a week ago, when the refrigerator's freezer fan started sporadically making a funny noise, I called the repair hotline to schedule service. I called on a Monday. Sears would have scheduled a Tuesday service appointment, but I asked them to hold off until Friday, since I would be working out of town until then and the refrigerator was still cooling adequately. They set the appointment for Friday, "between the hours of 1 and 5." They said that I would get an e-mail confirming the appointment, and that the repairman would call 30 minutes before his arrival.
Mid-morning on Friday, when I had not received a confirming e-mail, I called the repair hotline to make sure I was on the list for service. They said that they had, indeed, scheduled us for service between the hours of 1 and 5.
At 4:57 p.m., I phoned the repair hotline again. Yes, I was on the list. Yes, the repairman would call before his arrival. Evidently running behind. Blah-blah-blah. At 6:30, having not heard from a service technician, we went out to dinner.
Today is Tuesday. I have still not had a call from the repairman.
Sears, your service stinks. I realize that you contract the work and thus are even farther removed from your actual customers' needs, but somewhere in your big corporate world, the buck should stop with someone. Your service repair hotline won't/can't tell me who that person is or how to reach him/her, so I'm hereby letting you know that someone, somewhere, has dropped the ball.
Sears, doing what you say you will do is one of the basic necessities of human interaction. It is one of the fundamental principles of business. It builds trust. Trust builds customer bases. Customers build profits. You know how it works. You can't leave us out of the equation indefinitely. I understand that my refrigerator's "funny noise" is not (yet) an emergency, and that other customers may be experiencing far more serious problems that should receive attention first. Since my ice cream and 'tater tots are still frozen, I'm not all that upset that the service call has been delayed, but I am upset with the lack of communication. The service company with which you have contracted is not doing its job.
NEWS FLASH: I just phoned the Sears repair hotline to determine when the new repair appointment will be. Guess what? There is no repair appointment scheduled. Sears' notes reflect that a repairman showed up at our door at 7:01 p.m. on Friday evening, and that the homeowner cancelled the service call.
Sears, I am boiling mad. We left the house to go out to dinner around 6:30 p.m. There had been no call from the repairman to let us know he was coming, and there was no one here to answer the door or cancel the appointment when he arrived. Your contract technician has told a big, fat LIE. And guess what else? When I asked to schedule another appointment, I was told that the next available appointment was Saturday, at a time when I cannot be here. The next available appointment after that is on Tuesday, between the hours of 8 and 5. And guess what else? The telephone operator said that the repairman MAY call before his arrival, but would not guarantee it. So that means I either have to stay here all day Tuesday (when I'm supposed to be at work), or risk missing the service call. It's last year's repair ordeal, all over again.
Sears, this frosts the cake. I am done with you. When I go out to shop for a new kitchen stove, I will not be buying from you. I will be going to my local hardware store, which has an in-house repairman to service the appliances they sell. Let me tell you a story about their service. My niece bought a refrigerator from them. When it went out, this hardware store brought her a "loaner" refrigerator to use while they fixed/replaced hers. That, Sears, is service. You could learn something from them.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Risky Moves
Thursday, as I pulled in my driveway after work, I glanced across the road out of habit to see what was going on at Nanny's and Pop-Pop's house. Their cars were home and the workshop door was open. Disturbingly, Pop-Pop's 10-ft. painter's ladder was standing open directly in front of the shop. I squinted, but couldn't tell if anyone was on the ladder. To be honest, I didn't think Pop-Pop could climb a ladder because of the arthritis in his feet, but I didn't doubt that Nanny might give it a go, and she doesn't have any business on a ladder, either.
I came on in the house, changed clothes, and sat down at my computer desk. From here, I could glance out the window and see the workshop door. Every few minutes, I'd lean back and have a look, ready to intervene if I saw someone move toward the ladder.
Sure enough, after a while, I saw movement near the ladder. Judging from the speed at which the person was walking, I knew that the person was Pop-Pop. As I watched, he made his first slow step onto the ladder. Oh, I don't think so! I jumped up, grabbed my car keys, and went down there.
By the time I got there, Pop-Pop was standing on the ground, holding the giant streetlight-type lamp that normally hangs over the shop door. The look on his face said he knew he was busted.
I got out of the car and walked toward him. "Hmmm...I'm not liking the looks of this," I said.
"What?" he asked, trying to look innocent.
"You, near a ladder. Need some help?"
He hum-hee-hawed around and eventually said that he didn't think either of us would be able to re-attach the lamp. I was a little relieved that he was apparently abandoning the idea for the moment, for I wasn't too thrilled about climbing the ladder, myself. A few minutes later, one of his grandchildren drove up, and, thankfully, Pop-Pop delegated the job to him.
While The Nephew reinstalled the light, Pop-Pop pointed out that the tomatoes were "firin' up." Sure enough, it looks like they've been hit with late blight. I couldn't remember exactly how long it had been since I'd sprayed fungicide. "I'll have to check my records," I told him, meaning this blog.
Looking back, I see that it's been about 3 weeks since the last treatment - too long, really, considering the vigor with which this fungus thrives around here. I should have been spraying at regular intervals, regardless of whether or not signs of blight were present. You'd think I'd have learned that lesson by now.
Sure enough, after a while, I saw movement near the ladder. Judging from the speed at which the person was walking, I knew that the person was Pop-Pop. As I watched, he made his first slow step onto the ladder. Oh, I don't think so! I jumped up, grabbed my car keys, and went down there.
By the time I got there, Pop-Pop was standing on the ground, holding the giant streetlight-type lamp that normally hangs over the shop door. The look on his face said he knew he was busted.
I got out of the car and walked toward him. "Hmmm...I'm not liking the looks of this," I said.
"What?" he asked, trying to look innocent.
"You, near a ladder. Need some help?"
He hum-hee-hawed around and eventually said that he didn't think either of us would be able to re-attach the lamp. I was a little relieved that he was apparently abandoning the idea for the moment, for I wasn't too thrilled about climbing the ladder, myself. A few minutes later, one of his grandchildren drove up, and, thankfully, Pop-Pop delegated the job to him.
While The Nephew reinstalled the light, Pop-Pop pointed out that the tomatoes were "firin' up." Sure enough, it looks like they've been hit with late blight. I couldn't remember exactly how long it had been since I'd sprayed fungicide. "I'll have to check my records," I told him, meaning this blog.
Looking back, I see that it's been about 3 weeks since the last treatment - too long, really, considering the vigor with which this fungus thrives around here. I should have been spraying at regular intervals, regardless of whether or not signs of blight were present. You'd think I'd have learned that lesson by now.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
The Lazy Weekend that Wasn't
Last week was a seriously busy time for me, and so as I snatched an old Patricia Cornwell novel out of a sale bin at the drugstore on Friday evening, I envisioned myself piled up on the couch for the weekend, absorbed in the thriller.
It was not to be.
Standing before the open refrigerator on Saturday morning, I realized that I'd have to break down and go grocery shopping or we'd go hungry all weekend. I showered and dressed and hit the road about 9 a.m. As The Husband and I were putting away the groceries an hour later, he told me that The Grandson had called, wanting to come over. Before we finished, the phone rang again. The Husband answered it. "Ok, we'll be down there in a little bit to get some of it," I heard him say. He hung up the phone and turned to me: "Mama's picked a bucket of tomatoes, a bucket of butterbeans, and a bunch of okra. And somebody gave her a bucket of pears. She said for us to come get some of it."
Oh, boy...there goes my lazy Saturday, I thought, but I went across the road and relieved Nanny of the tomatoes and butterbeans. While I was there, she told me that the squash plants in the garden were infested with bugs. I went out and had a look and, sure enough, the squash plants were crawling with squash bugs of every size and description. They'd already demolished some of the older plants and were working their way down the row. Watching them, I remembered that a month ago a friend in Albuquerque had complained that squash bugs had arrived in his garden, and that he had given them $5 and my address. Thanks, buddy. I'd have to deal with them later.
Back at home, when The Grandson saw me assembling the tomato squeezer, he made a bee-line to the kitchen, volunteering his help. Letting him help seemed like a good idea. I clamped the contraption to the kitchen table, showed Caleb how to turn the crank, and began slicing the tomatoes into the hopper. We'd only ground a few tomatoes when he leaned into the juicer too hard and knocked the whole business, bowls and all, onto the kitchen floor. He needed no encouragement to go play with his trains when he saw the mess he'd made. I cleaned it up and finished the job without his assistance.
It was early evening by the time I'd canned the tomatoes and shelled and blanched the butterbeans. My feet were aching, but I knew that if I sat down to rest them, I'd never get up again, and there were still squash bugs to be dispatched. I went across the road, mixed up a few gallons of insecticide, and went out to greet the squash bugs. Truth be told, the squash plants weren't worth saving, but I knew those rotten bugs would multiply, or over-winter in the soil, or something; getting rid of them this year might save me some headache next year. I let 'em have it with the bug spray and didn't even feel bad about it.
Sunday was far less hectic, even though Caleb was still with us. We had a semi-lazy day loitering around in our pajamas, reading books, watching cartoons, and watching the writing spider catch bugs in her web outside our living room window. Between all that, I managed to wash four loads of laundry, change the bed sheets, and put meals on the table - all in all a productive weekend, despite the non-productive plans I'd made.
It was not to be.
Standing before the open refrigerator on Saturday morning, I realized that I'd have to break down and go grocery shopping or we'd go hungry all weekend. I showered and dressed and hit the road about 9 a.m. As The Husband and I were putting away the groceries an hour later, he told me that The Grandson had called, wanting to come over. Before we finished, the phone rang again. The Husband answered it. "Ok, we'll be down there in a little bit to get some of it," I heard him say. He hung up the phone and turned to me: "Mama's picked a bucket of tomatoes, a bucket of butterbeans, and a bunch of okra. And somebody gave her a bucket of pears. She said for us to come get some of it."
Oh, boy...there goes my lazy Saturday, I thought, but I went across the road and relieved Nanny of the tomatoes and butterbeans. While I was there, she told me that the squash plants in the garden were infested with bugs. I went out and had a look and, sure enough, the squash plants were crawling with squash bugs of every size and description. They'd already demolished some of the older plants and were working their way down the row. Watching them, I remembered that a month ago a friend in Albuquerque had complained that squash bugs had arrived in his garden, and that he had given them $5 and my address. Thanks, buddy. I'd have to deal with them later.
Back at home, when The Grandson saw me assembling the tomato squeezer, he made a bee-line to the kitchen, volunteering his help. Letting him help seemed like a good idea. I clamped the contraption to the kitchen table, showed Caleb how to turn the crank, and began slicing the tomatoes into the hopper. We'd only ground a few tomatoes when he leaned into the juicer too hard and knocked the whole business, bowls and all, onto the kitchen floor. He needed no encouragement to go play with his trains when he saw the mess he'd made. I cleaned it up and finished the job without his assistance.
It was early evening by the time I'd canned the tomatoes and shelled and blanched the butterbeans. My feet were aching, but I knew that if I sat down to rest them, I'd never get up again, and there were still squash bugs to be dispatched. I went across the road, mixed up a few gallons of insecticide, and went out to greet the squash bugs. Truth be told, the squash plants weren't worth saving, but I knew those rotten bugs would multiply, or over-winter in the soil, or something; getting rid of them this year might save me some headache next year. I let 'em have it with the bug spray and didn't even feel bad about it.
Sunday was far less hectic, even though Caleb was still with us. We had a semi-lazy day loitering around in our pajamas, reading books, watching cartoons, and watching the writing spider catch bugs in her web outside our living room window. Between all that, I managed to wash four loads of laundry, change the bed sheets, and put meals on the table - all in all a productive weekend, despite the non-productive plans I'd made.
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