No Punch Line

I've had some really bad customer service lately; it must be a full moon.

First there was the Sears phone-sex saga. I needed to change a delivery time. After calling multiple numbers, right and wrong, I finally got an unfriendly fellow at the local Sears appliance desk. "Call this 800-home delivery number," he barked. 1-800-732-7744. Here's what I got.

Attention, all cellphone users: you could be chatting and hooking up with local singles in seconds. Just text the keyword hello. That's H-E-L-L-O to the number 36999. Cost is just $1.99 only when you receive a reply from your new friend. Just text the keyword hello. That's H-E-L-L-O to the number 36999. And have lots of fun . . .

. . . a Demi Moore-ish voice purred. This was not the Sears department I was looking for. This was not fun. Thanks a lot, Mr. Ace-is-the-Place.

Eventually I got Jenny in customer service and told her I needed delivery to be after 11:00 a.m. "Oh, it doesn't work that way," she cheerfully explained. "I can put in a time request but it's no guarantee." Really, Jenny? So after I've bought an appliance and given Sears my money, I have to go into lock-down just to take possession? Jenny empathized. "I totally understand," she said soothingly. "It doesn't seem right."

But Jenny handled me well; I'd just been through Highlights hell.

The mysterious Highlights invoice arrived last week. Seems Highlights had roped in Mr. M, enticing him to sign up for a free map. This, of course, triggered an unending barrage of expensive ones. Furious, I called Highlights to cancel this unlawful map quest; my army of one threatened a total boycott.
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Highlights woman: But the subscription card clearly states this is a contract for bi-weekly maps, to be invoiced bi-monthly. We can pull the subscription card to determine if it was filled out by a minor. But you must understand, we process thousands of subscription cards and . . . we can't always tell . . . .

Me: Bi, bi, by the way, you can't expect an 8-year old to know he's agreeing to buy maps in perpetuity. And you'll definitely see the card was filled out by a minor. Once you confirm this, what action will you take?

Woman: Yes, mam. I've put in a request to pull the card, and we'll send you a copy if you'd like.

Me: Nope. Not the question. Once you confirm it was submitted by a minor, and you will, what action are you going to take?

Woman: Mam, as I said, we'll be happy to pull the card and send you a copy.

Me (what, she wants me to frame it?): There's no point confirming it was sent by a minor if you're not going to do anything. Are you going to tell your employees not to do this again? Or refund the money we've already paid? What you are going to do?

Woman (sighing heavily): Hold on, please, while I transfer you.

I'm a hamster on a wheel.
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Topping off the afternoon was Mr. M's most uncool cut, courtesy of a bulging-eyed, talon-fingered creature. We pulled into the neighborhood "cool" kids' hair palace and I'll admit, I was a little off-kilter. Tense even. Schools are closing by the minute, not to mention the warning light in my car had just come on; the gas gauge was on E.

When it comes to Mr. M's hair or anything much else, I'm not a hovering mom; whatever it is will eventually grow back. He can free-range it as long as he doesn't look like a free-range chicken. But Bulging gave me a bad feeling I should have heeded from the get-go.

She ominously assured me her clippers "only go down to an eight," which made my blood run cold. Although I don't know anything about an "eight," someone used clippers on me in college and I still haven't recovered. "Don't worry, mom, I promise you'll like it," she insisted. Mmmmhmmm.

Before I could blink, she had whipped out those clippers and nearly shaved off the bottom half of Mr. M's head. The back of his neck was flaming red. I unsnapped his cape and said we needed to go, brushing little hairs off his neck. "But you can't let him walk out of here like that," she said. "Look at his head."

To my horror, she was right. He looked like an aspiring Mohican. "Okay, okay," I said weakly, bullied by circumstance. "But don't cut off much more." I stood for the duration, looking like Obama when Biden quipped about Robertson's flubbed oath.

As I turned to leave, there stood another mother I'd never met before. I shot her the look, "Run for the hills!" in silent universal mom language.

"Really?" she said, just like that, with the best poker face I've ever seen. "Mmmhmmm!" I murmured, like a veteran ventriloquist. And by golly that mom was quick. "Is Monica here? No? Okay, bye, bye."

"Well that was harrowing," I said to Mr. M, as I started to back out the car. "What does 'harrowing' mean?" he asked. Suspenseful, I told him, and agonizing.

Just then, the rescued mom appeared at my window. "Thank you for that warning. We've had some bad hair experiences." "No problem at all," I told her, "Glad you were spared."