Posted by Alison
Fri, 06 Apr 2007 15:04:00 GMT
It seems cleaning ladies are the latest to fall victim to the over-worked stress in Calgary. My husband and I, over-worked and stressed in our own right, hired Fussy Budgets Cleaning Co on the advice of a good friend who was also using their service. Her house always looked immaculate, so we decided to give them a call.
Now our house is a smaller 1920s bungalow so Keri, one of the Budgets, offered to do some extras that would be included in their $125 flat rate. The first appointment was rescheduled by the Budgets but when they did show they did a solid job, though the downstairs tub was missed. I didn’t say anything, but when I called to confirm our next appointment Keri gushed about how much she loved our house.
Then they came for the second job, and that’s where things went sour. On the SECOND job. The honeymoon period in the housecleaning biz is apparently very short. They missed a number of the basics, some listed below, so I called their cell number and reached Keri’s husband who was apparently helping that day. He told me all of my concerns were manageable and apologized that he had ended up home sick that day.
So they were supposed to come yesterday, but we came home to find the job not done and a message saying they had a sick child that needed their attention. They offered to come on Good Friday so I called to confirm. At the same time I told Keri that I wasn’t happy with the last job and wanted to ensure that some of these basics wouldn’t be missed.
That’s when she lost her feather duster.
Apparently, since their first appointment (remember we’re only just past appointment two) they had decided they wouldn’t do our house because it is “filthy” and has “six inches of dust on everything.” I know on good authority that it isn’t the case and anyone who has ever popped in for a surprise visit knows that even when caught by surprise my house is always in immaculate order. In fact, between appointments we had been dusting, vacuuming and cleaning the upper bathroom to keep the house to that standard.
So there I was, making excuses for my house to Ms. Fussy herself, even though I know full well it needs no defense. I was standing in my pre-cleaning-but-still-spotless kitchen, telling Keri that living in the inner city is a dusty proposition…and that our furnace is older…and…
But then I ask myself, “For a cleaning lady, isn’t dust the foe they fight with the passion of a cop and his crime…a doctor and his ills…a chef and his hunger?”
So, we’re fired. There will be no Fussy Budgets today. No amount of furnace-tales would bring the Fussies back to my already-tidy home. But the best part of all was having her hang up on me. So take that as a word of caution to anyone with dust and a desire for assistance. Do it yourself and save yourself an ear-full on a holiday morning.
Items Apparently Not Covered by Fussy Budgets:
- Dust on couch seat and arms
- Dust on fronts sides of cabinets, and in corners of mantle
- Dust bunnies in corners of bathroom and behind doors
- Dried food on stovetop
- Dust on baseboards
- Dead bugs on window sills hidden behind blinds
- Soap scum in downstairs bath tub
- Polite business sense
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Posted by Alison
Sun, 18 Mar 2007 18:03:00 GMT
While I can appreciate honesty, I can honestly say that I appreciate it much less when flying home from a week-long business trip. This past Friday I found myself in the unusual circumstance of having six hours to spare before my flight home. So I went immediately to the airport hoping to change to an earlier flight, having done so the day before on a flight from Montreal, at no cost.
Alas, it was not to be. Why? Because, as Sarah the gate agent admitted, she’s been employed at WestJet for so long that she is no longer a nice person.
I approached the gate in good spirits, at the thought of being back home at a decent hour. The conversation as I can best recall unfolded as follows.
“Hi there. How are you?” I ask, smiling, luggage in tow.
“Good, thank you. How are you?” Sarah asks. We were off to a good start.
“Great thanks.”
“Where are you flying to?”
“Calgary. But I am on the late flight and would love to move to an earlier one if that’s at all possible,” I inquire.
“I can do that. The fee is $40 for stand-by.” This is where things began to go sideways. I work for a non-profit, and every dollar I spend is a dollar I have to raise. I’d rather not give my hard-raised $40 to WestJet, particularly given I changed my flight at no cost in Montreal. I am perplexed. Why the discrepancy in fees?
“Oh. Well, I flew from Montreal yesterday on an earlier flight and there was no charge.”
“Well, that’s the fee. Your agent there likely did it as a ‘customer service’ thing,” Sarah replied. I was not willing to let it go just yet.
“So what you mean is the agent did it out of the goodness of her heart.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re not willing to do that?” I asked with genuine sweetness.
“No. I’ve been working for WestJet for four years and I am no longer nice.”
Oh. OK. So that’s the end of that. What a colossal excuse! ‘The company made me bitchy.’ Well, maybe I’ll try using that in my job. Oops - nope - can’t do that. Why? Because in my world I’d get fired! But in the delusional, near-monopoly world of WestJet, gate agents can be bitchy and just offer four years of employment with the company as an excuse. Brilliant.
So Sarah proceeded to charge my credit card, just as another customer dragged her luggage to the attendant next to me. The customer was also bound for Calgary and asked to change flights, for which her agent charged her $21 for stand-by. Now that’s interesting.
“What’s the difference between her $21 stand-by fee and my $40 stand-by fee?” I inquire, at which Sarah asks her colleague to confirm the cost.
“I’m sorry I had it wrong. It’s $21,” she says. Not only was she charging me a fee, she almost charged me double!
I bite my tongue as I wonder to myself, “How can someone who’d been working at WestJet for four years be confused about the fees?” But most perplexing, “How is it that it is OK to blame your employer for your bad attitude?”
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Posted by Alison
Thu, 14 Dec 2006 04:28:00 GMT
I realize the title may have scared off some off the men, but read on. This is a violent tale of colour-gone-wrong that is a lesson to anyone who sets foot in a hair salon.
So I arrive for my hair appointment mid-day, having taken time off work. The stylist I go to, we’ll call him “Rick”, is chronically late and the environment is best described as chaotic (there is usually at least one loud argument among the stylists or the occasional on-the-spot firing). Regardless, Rick is the best stylist I have found. And believe me, I’ve tried many.
So I arrive on time, prepared for him to be late. Lunch and computer in hand, I settle in. My number finally comes up and I’m ushered to Rick’s chair where we discuss strategy. Rick is proposing a rather “out there” style. I’m game, on the caveat that we not go too bold on the colour, and we do what we can to soften the cut.
Where the plan fell apart was in the colourists chair. A colour job I thought would be “softened” turned into two hours of foils, what seemed like too much time under the heat lamp, and colour dye dribbling down the back of my neck.
Leaving the wash station I made a conscious decision not to look in the mirror. But I have no self control. So I look. And what do I see? Splotches of black, and splotches of blonde. Wanting a rear view, I grab the mirror. And what do I see? The back side, which is cropped very short, is platinum. That’s when I fell apart.
Turning to Rick, who was finishing with a client, I say, “It’s really f**cking white back there…” He assures me it will be softer when it is dried. But the tears start to flow. I look like Cruella de Ville! …On a bad hair day…
I call my husband and, while making arrangements for him to go to my next appointment on my behalf, I can hear Rick on a total rant. He’s completely pissed off at me, yelling, “I don’t have the time for this sh*t.”
The best part, no, the second best part was when he donned his coat and headed for the door. Apparently he felt it wasn’t necessary to stick around to ensure my hair was fixed, much less finish my cut and style. Apparently, this was a bad day for him to have to deal with this. Just before walking through the door he said, “You don’t want me here now. You would regret it if I stayed!”
The best part was when (after I’d said to another staff person, “The last time I came in, Rick was on back meds and botched my cut, and now this.”) the colourist came at me, yelling, “Don’t you f–king say Rick was on drugs! He doesn’t f**cking take drugs when he cuts hair!!!” And she continued her rant in valliant defense of her boss. Meanwhile, she’s erratically waving around the shade of brown she planned to apply to my hair.
And I’m thinking, where the hell am I?!?
What would you do?
There I was in the middle of the salon, if front of Rick’s last client, in front of his staff, bawling with a disaster of a colour job and everyone’s yelling … at me!
After gathering myself in the washroom, I tried frantically to call my husband to see if I could get an appointment at Jerome Salon - I knew they could fix it and I could walk out of this freak show. But my cell was out of range so I decided to go back in.
I came back to find everyone, particularly the colourist, had gathered themselves. She apologized profusely, saying her behaviour was unprofessional and un-called-for, and that it was against her best judgement to use those colours. Essentially playing the “he made me do it” card. In any case, to my relief, she did a really good fix on my hair, and one of the other stylists blew it dry.
But I still sit here in the quiet of my dining room haven, far from the colour foils and pomade of the salon, still shell-shocked wondering, “In the world of hair, who is the client? The stylist or the person in the chair?”
UPDATE: I had initially published this entry without the name of the salon, having been assured that the stylist would call to apologize. He hasn’t. So for any one wondering: it’s Alta Moda Salon in Mount Royal. And the stylist - very talented but extremely temperamental - is Ricardo.
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Posted by Alison
Mon, 11 Dec 2006 02:17:00 GMT
So, just home from a weekend in the woods at Baker Creek Chalets, I open my Sunday Herald and hunker down for a few hours of evening reading. And what slides out of the stack of inserts, but a glossy porn flier for Priape, apparently “Canada’s Favorite Gay Store”.
Now, let’s be clear here. I’m all for fliers. I’m all for gays. And, heck, I’ve seen my share of porn. What I’m not into is a graphically explicit catalogue for gay porn (or any kind of porn, for that matter) arriving with my Sunday Herald.
(Though I couldn’t stop myself from leafing through the catalog, perusing the titles. “Bronc Rider”…”Beef Eaters”…”Manhole”…”Rammer”…all jump off the page from under the screaming headline, “Just in Time for Christmas!”)
I find it hard to believe that this flier could make it’s way into a mass-circulated broadsheet in Canada. Maybe in Amsterdam, or even San Fran, but in Calgary? I have to admit that, at first, I was offended. Then I found it kind of funny. Then I was fascinated with the DVD jackets and screen shots showing mounds of flesh being devoured in ways I didn’t think possible. Then I found myself driven to write in this journal and ask the question: Would you like your Herald with a side of porn?
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Posted by Alison
Fri, 27 Oct 2006 03:05:00 GMT
OK. So I’m at the Tim Hortons at 17th Avenue and 10th Street on Tuesday stopping in for my morning single-double. (Don’t tell my friends at Beano…) As usual I’m in a complete hurry to get to work. I walk to my car, and wouldn’t you know, someone has parked their Jeep half-in half-out of the stall. It’s sticking out into the isle, and is so close to my rear fender that I can’t get out. Neither can anyone else.
I ask myself, “What universe is this person navigating in?”
Now, anyone that’s been to this T-Ho location will know that the city must have been on crack when they issued a permit for this location - the parking lot is just barely large enough for someone adept at maneuvering their car. But when you you have Jeep + idiot driver, it’s a disaster.
Anyway, I went back in and demanded that the driver of the Jeep move. This lady at the counter turns around and says, “It’s mine. Just a minute while I get my doughnuts.” Now, I’m already offended by her gas-guzzling chick-truck, but doughnuts too? It’s just too much.
So I graciously hold the door open for her, and all she can say to me is, “Sorry, the service was so slow.”
Huh?
She actually thought it was not only OK to just park in the middle of the lot and block other caffeine-depleted people from starting their day, it seems she though she thought it was normal!
In the end, she moved her heap. I got to work. The coffee did what it does. I have to admit I was pretty gracious about the whole thing, but it’s not that I didn’t think bad thoughts… So to the crazy lady with the Jeep, may you find a short and curly in your maple glaze.
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Posted by Alison
Sat, 25 Feb 2006 17:40:00 GMT
So a week later Douglas and I found ourselves at an Italian place in Forest Lawn. For those of you wondering why we would cross the tracks for Italian when there’s enough good Italian on the west side of town, well, you’ve clearly never been to Amarone Restaurant. (1919F 31 Street SE, 272-6333)
“Hole in the wall” is one way to describe it, but “hidden gem” is much more accurate. If you can look past the staid office chairs and utilitatian lighting you will find an unassuming little place where the owner is the cook, and the food is the best Italian I’ve had. Period.
The service was terrific, but the most memorable part of the meal was a when one of the regulars, Gerry, arrived for his weekly oysters florentine fix. (BTW, they were out of fresh oysters so we watched as the chef’s assistant ran across the parking lot at -20 to fetch some at the fish market.)
Being the only patrons in the place we invited Gerry to join us as we celebrated my best friends’ birthday. Declining at first, he emerged from the kitchen with a really great bottle of wine to celebrate Diana’s birthday.
Later on Gerry returned from the corner liquor store with another bottle, which we shared at the table along with the most amazing oysters.
Thank you Gerry, and thank you Amarone, for a memorable Friday night in Forest Lawn. (Which, surprising to many including my Dad, did not include a shooting.)
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Posted by Alison
Tue, 21 Feb 2006 00:30:00 GMT
Out for an afternoon of furniture shopping in Kensington, Douglas and I decided to take a deserved break. Finding my favorite Kensington coffee house Higher Ground busy, we proceeded to the Yardhouse.
We managed to catch the tail-end of the gold-medal final in the Olympic Women’s Hockey. Our Canadians won the gold but shortly after the final buzzer sounded the server at the bar switched the audio to some rock music, instead of leaving the audio to play out for the medal ceremony. When he came to take our orders I politely asked if he could switch it back just for the ceremony, to which he said that this was standard practice following a game. I indicated that I would really like to hear the Canadian anthem. Holding his ground he rudely asked, “Will you stand if the anthem is played?” Gobsmacked, I let him walk away.
Collecting my thoughts I waited until he returned with our food. I said that this was just not another hockey game; it’s the Olympics and we just won the gold. To this he retorted, “We’re not in Turino.” To which I said, “Yes, but we’re Canadians!”
Not enough; but I persisted by politely noting that all the bar patrons were not listening to Salt ‘n’ Peppa’s smash hit of the 90s “Push It” but instead watching as the Canadians received their medals and shed tears as our flag was being raised.
Not enough; but I again persisted by pointing out that the Yardhouse, like many other Calgary sports bars, made a sweet Canadian penny when our own Flames rocked the North American hockey scene two seasons ago. The least the Yardhouse could do is let me, my husband, and the other patrons enjoy this victory.
Not enough.
Not enough for someone who clearly lacked not only the patriotism and pride one feels when our country is represented by good sportsmen and talented athletes on the world stage; but also not enough for someone who lacked the good business sense to know that the customer is almost always right. Particularly when it comes to a polite request to hear the national anthem as our country wins Olympic gold.
To that I say, “Oh Canada” to you oh arrogant one of the Yardhouse. You are far from an example of what makes Canada such a fabulous place to live.
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