Why Must You Make My Life So Difficult?

Dear Sprint,

This month I'm writing you a check and sending it via U.S. Mail to your general P.O. Box in Dallas. You probably won't ask why because you have no interest in my satisfaction, but let me just say that your web payment system blows monkey balls. Apparently during the beginning of the busy holiday season you prompted me to sign up for an account PIN, "to enhance account protection." I know that I signed up for my account number because I diligently saved this email from you:

This letter is to inform you that Sprint has completed the following transactions:

Nov 19, 2007 at 12:10 pm(CST) - A PIN was created for the account

Nov 19, 2007 at 12:10 pm(CST) - The Security Question and Answer on the account were updated

Of course the really important bit of information that's missing from this email is the PIN number. There is no way in hell I'm ever going to remember a "6- to 10-digit numeric" PIN, unless it's my social security number, and everybody knows you don't use your SSN for a PIN. Why wouldn't you have included my PIN in my PIN creation verification email?

OK - full disclosure - I might have forgotten my password as well. And while your website does give me the option to retrieve my password, I need my PIN to do it. No PIN, no password, no password, no PIN. Ever hear of a catch-22? You've got a doozy of one on your website.

So I thought, "I give up, I'll pay by phone." I dialed, followed the voice prompts, which, by the way, included, "Would you like to pay with the account we have *on file* ending in xxxx?"

Aha - the system recognized me. I pressed 1 for "yes."

"Please enter your PIN number for payment verification."

Sprint....DAMMIT!!

0#0#0#

Your Customer Service department in Dubai was happy to take my call. I apologize if I was snippy, but the conversation went something like this:

Me: Look. All I want to do is give you people my money. Why won't you take it?

CS: Ma'am we need your PIN number or password.

Me: I don't have my PIN number or password, that is why I am talking to Customer Service. Let's find another solution. Aren't there other questions you can ask my to verify my identity? Like my secret question and my secret answer? I know my secret answer. [Actually, I probably *don't* since you also changed that on Nov 19.]

CS: No, we need the PIN.

Me: I don't HAVE a PIN. How do I GET a PIN?

CS: Please visit any Sprint store during normal business hours and bring *two forms of ID* with you to set up a PIN.

Me: You've got to be kidding me.

CS: No Ma'am. Now if you stay on the line I will be happy to take your one-time payment via credit card. Transaction time will be 24 hours.

Me: Forget it. I am writing a check; it will be far more convenient. Thank you for your assistance.

Sprint, your website failed me, and your crack customer service department failed me. I am sorely disappointed, but I can't say I'm surprised.

I Remain,

Your Reluctant Customer Only Because Verizon Wireless Sucks Gorilla Balls

P.S. I can't believe I wasted one of my Louis Comfort Tiffany stamps on you.

Pitts_urgh, I Can Live Without the "B"

I'm writing this post because I've found found little public outrage on the unceremonious removal of my favorite radio station for the last six months, 93.7 "The Zone", otherwise known as "The Man Station".

Overlooking the obvious pandering to the Jimmy Kimmel sect in the naming of the station, the most recent programming on the hottest real estate in Radioland had something unusual to offer Pittsburgh: local talent.

How much more canned air can you swallow, Pitt_urgh? Do we really need more programming that predominantly features Phil Collins and Mariah Carey?

Pitts_urgh, you invented radio, why can't you get it right? I guess it's back to my iPod for my afternoon commute.... And to think my faith in the medium had nearly been restored. This whole thing just stinks like week-old haluski.

Scott Paulson's website is here.
John McIntyre's blog is here.
Gab Bonnesso's website is here.
Staggy has no web presence, as far as I can tell.
Read about lots of radio folk of bygone days here.

Vacation

It is now my fourth day of vacation, not counting the weekend, and I still have four more to go. This is the most consecutive time I've taken off since my wedding and honeymoon six years ago, and those were the three most hectic weeks of my life. I suppose some people would count my 9 weeks of maternity leave as vacation, but those people have never recuperated from labor and delivery, or cared for an infant.

But this vacation is filled with loosely planned activities with my son, capped with a grown-ups only trip to Chicago. And now that Tommy is napping, I am finding myself with 2.5 luxurious hours to do whatever I want (as long as I don't leave the house). I finally finished The Executioner's Song, which I've been reading for about a year in the 30-minute blocks between Tommy's bedtime and when I pass out on the couch. Later I hope to post some pictures to our website, since the last picture of Tommy up there predates Christmas 2006. But now I blog.

It feels very decadent to have so much time to myself. But then I remember people in Europe get on average 24 days of vacation, compared to 13 for the U.S. That means that I'm slightly below average with 10 days of vacation, and two floating holidays. Just another five more years at my current place of employment and I'll get that coveted third week of vacation. Sigh.

I told the folks at work that if they needed me in an emergency they could call my cell, but Friday I put the damn thing through the washing machine and now it is B-roken. I blame "vacation brain." I always check pockets before I do laundry when I am in hyper-working-mom-get-four-days-worth-of-chores-done-in-an-hour mode. (Except for the time I put a box of Tommy's raisins in with the towels and made grapes.) And it sucks to have to replace the phone because I hate using it. But apparently society dictates that I need it "in case of an emergency" blah blah blah blah blah. I rather like not being reachable at any moment of the day. But I probably would miss it if I had a blowout on the parkway with a screaming 2 year old in the backseat.

Today my plan was to meet my girlfriend for breakfast, but first I stopped at my bank to get some cash. Went through the entire transaction - the machine even told me "transaction complete" - but I received no cash. That's when I happened to notice two envelopes in the trash with handwritten messages of "MACHINE BROKEN" and "WILL NOT DISPENSE CASH!!!" Crap. This was at 8:55; my breakfast was set for 9 AM, conveniently the same time the bank opened. I decided to take care of the problem since I was there, and after all, how long would it take to fix it?

Full Disclosure:
I hate banking. I hate banks. Hate hate hate. There is no reason to ever go to a bank if you have direct deposit, online banking, and ATMs. It pisses me off to have to step foot in a bank and take 15 minutes to do a transaction that would take 30 seconds to do online. But I foolishly wait in a throng of early morning brick-and-mortar banking lovers, because I believe that a PERSON may be able to help me more efficiently than a machine.

At first, that seemed to be the case. The teller was able to see that, yes, five minutes ago I did indeed access my account at their ATM attached to their building. And yes, the ATM did withdraw $40 from my checking account, although I received no cash. And the teller acknowledged, "we've been having problems with that machine." But then it went downhill. I was sent to the second tier of the banking inferno, where the "specialists" work. There "Kumar" took my card and asked me to verify my address, phone number, and account information down. Then he got on the phone with corporate for about five minutes, and I heard a snippet about "Form 1017-C". It's now 9:15. If you recall, I have no cell phone so I can't call my girlfriend. Plus, the bank is a very boring place for a toddler, particularly if you don't let him pull all of the deposit slips off the counters.

Kumar gets off the phone, tippity-types at his terminal for a few minutes, turns to me and says, "OK, looks like we're all in order. I've submitted the correct form, and you should receive your refund in approximately 10 days."

Hmm? What's that? Come again? TEN DAYS??

"The ATM's funds are handled separately than the bank's, and I'm afraid that all claims need to be processed for these types of refunds. The process takes approximately 10 days. In the meantime if you need to make a withdrawal, you can use our internal ATM at your convenience."

Well, thank you very much for making this banking experience so G-D CONVENIENT. I hope Citizens Bank enjoys making interest off of my hijacked $40 for the next 10 FREAKING DAYS.

I thought about causing a ruckus and demanding satisfaction but 1) I was running late. 2) I try to curb my use of the f-word when I am with my son. 3) Like fighting most things banking related, I would have argued until my face turned blue, but still received an "It's out of our hands" response (accompanied by sheepish smile and shrug). And I know that response. I understand that response. Shit, I worked customer service and I've GIVEN that response. But it still sucks when it's your money and your time and you have yet to have your breakfast.

Fortunately when I got to Kazansky's at 9:20, my poor girlfriend--seven months pregnant and, I'm sure, starving--was still waiting for me. I knew that scrambled eggs and potato knishes would restore my mood.

She looked at me, smiled sheepishly and shrugged: "They're not open until 10 AM."

CURSE YOU, CITIZENS BANK!! Somehow this is all your fault, too.

Citizens Bank R
"Not Your Typical Bank"TM
Member FDIC