The Customer is Always Wrong

That's apparently the motto for any service industry in the 21st Century. Or, maybe it should read: The Customer may only listen and not talk.

After calling First National Bank of Pennsylvania this morning to ask a question about the odd way in which Verizon handles my phone bill payments, I was "talked down to" by a CSR who obviously had no time for my questions. She wouldn't even let me finish a single sentence, although I tried. Apparently she knew it all and I knew nothing. But, how would she ever know that if she didn't take the time to listen? I guess First National Bank CSRs are trained by Verizon CSRs who are the kings and queens of knowing it all and not listening to their customers.

Finally, I had to inform this mouthy and extremely rude bank CRS that there was no use talking to her if she wouldn't let me finish a sentence and then I hung up.

No use beating a dead horse. It won't listen to you either. What really bothers me, though, is that she got away with treating me like dirt and will continue to do that to other customers with impunity.

I think it's high time for a customer revolt in America. Maybe if enough of us refuse to be yelled at over the phone and generally abused by people who are making money off us, America's service industries will finally wise up and be polite. Maybe they'll even learn to appreciate their customers.

Yeah, right.

When Chores Are Pleasures

There's a little spot of yard behind my garage that I named Gooseport, PA several years ago because of the two male Canada geese who used to live there all year long. The one I called Broken Wing was killed earlier this year by some kind of nocturnal predator and I only have one goose left now. His name is Big Mouth. But we call him "Mayor" now, the Mayor of Gooseport, PA.

Mayor (see pic) is eight years old and shares the summer pond with several ducks and a two-year-old female Canada goose I named Dipper (because she’s always dipping upside down in the water for food, more than the other goose, it seems). She left for parts unknown a week ago before I had a chance to snap her picture.

I feed Mayor cracked corn every day, white bread about twice a week and lawn grass, which I pick and put in an old Clementine box, about once a week also. His favorite meal is Italian bread without the crust.

Mayor paces impatiently at the gate when he hears me remove the metal lid from the corn barrel in the garage. Sometimes he almost pushes me out of the way as I fill the trough. But not lately. He misses both Broken-Wing and Dipper. I hope Dipper comes back before fall.

One of my morning chores is to trudge to the garage for cracked corn for Mayor and birdseed for the many wrens, sparrows, chickadees, cardinals, blue jays, black birds, etc. who know that, regardless of the weather, they’ll have fresh feed here to start the day.

Around this house animals are not referred to as “this” or “that” but as “who” and “whom”. And feeding them each morning never was much of a chore. In fact, it’s one of life’s little pleasures.