The Death of Customer Service

A few nights ago, my son and I stopped at a local Dunkin' Donuts so he could get his new favorite snack, a cinnamon raisin bagel with strawberry cream cheese. He didn't realize until we'd gotten home that the bagel had regular cream cheese. To erase the look of utter sadness and dejection that had covered his face, I told him we'd take it back.

I didn't go back into the store with him, but knew something was wrong when he came out a few seconds later holding the very same bag he went in with. "They're all out of bagels," he said. Did they offer him anything else or a credit or refund, I wondered? They hadn't he told me. So, I did what any mama bear protecting her cub would do: I went into the store with him to get his $2.15 back.

The woman behind the counter had a look in her eye that said she'd been there for hours and was ready to just get the heck up out of Dodge and off her feet already. When she saw us step to the counter, she literally sighed like we were planning on plucking her last good nerve. Politely, I explained what my son had just explained a few minutes before. I even threw in the obligatory "I'm sure it wasn't intentional, but..." speech hoping it would ease the tension and help move things along. Not.

"So he CAN'T eat regular cream cheese?" counter woman snarled.

"I didn't say CAN'T - I said doesn't like - which is why he ordered strawberry cream cheese to begin with," I said through clenched teeth. "Can't he just get a credit or something?"

"It may take a while," she sighed again. Honestly, I had no idea what we had done to so upset her, other than ask her to correct a mistake she'd made. Guess she didn't get the memo about the customer always being right.

Thirty seconds later, the register opened and she handed my son his cash. When he put down the bag to get his money, counter woman quickly SNATCHED it off the counter. To make matters worse, her manager was standing right next to her. It was difficult to wish them a nice evening, but I did.

What's wrong with this picture? Is customer service that dead that folks working the register at the neighborhood Dunkin' Donuts have to get snooty when their "authority" is challenged? Why wasn't a refund offered in the first place? Did she see a 15-yr-old and think she could treat him like his money wasn't green enough? Did the calm Black woman politely asking for a refund unnerve her so much that she had to get indignant? To me, the manager's silence was truly a non-verbal agreement that her actions were appropriate and condoned. What the heck was that all about?

Yesterday, my son wanted to get another bagel but was a little leery about going back to the scene of the crime. And to add insult to injury, he's filled out an application to work there over the summer. Although the store is about a two minute drive from my home, I don't think I want him working there.

If he does happen to get the job, hopefully he'll understand how NOT to treat a customer from personal experience - and that's truly a shame.

To Dye or Not to Dye - THAT is the Question

I think my hair is about 50 percent grey. I say "I think" because I never let the grey do its thing as I dye it so often. Trouble now is that the grey is lots more stubborn than it used to be and I find myself having to touch it up more than ever before. It seems like three weeks is as long as I can go before the temples and edges start sprouting little white wiry hairs. It's exhausting to have to do my do so much, but leaving the grey has been a totally unacceptable concept to me. Until now, anyway.

To save a little cash in these tough economic times, I buy Dark and Lovely or Colorsilk and dye my hair myself, which beats the heck out of paying about $60 at the salon to have it done. But still it has to be DONE, meaning I'm the one who has to don plastic gloves and an old towel every few weeks and do it. It's not hard, but it's extremely time-consuming and messy as all get out. It is such a pain in the butt!

A few days ago, I gave my roots a good long look and figured I could go at least another week before I'd have to break out the jet black hair color I keep on standby under the bathroom sink. But this morning, it looked like a few hundred hair follicles decided to rebel and stop producing color. How such a thing happens I have no idea, but I did know that I had no time to dye, wash, blow dry and curl my hair before I needed to be out the door. Instead, I just curled it and went on about my regular routine. Sure, it was a little shocking seeing my face surrounded by a little white hair halo whenever I passed a mirror, but it really wasn't nearly as bad as I thought it was going to be.

Reminded me of a commercial I saw about a week ago. Not sure what the ad was for, but two best friends with white hair (one had a cute little spiked pixie cut) were chatting about how they loved looking like the women of experience they were. The wore their coifs like crowns and even joked that they were going to start telling people that they were in their 80s instead of their 60s. They didn't seem unhappy about looking older at all. They were actually excited about it.

So what is it about a little grey that makes me want to run screaming to the drug store? I have no qualms about aging, I don't think, but somehow LOOKING older gives me pause. Call it vanity or whatever, but I enjoy it when I hear folks tell me that I haven't aged a day at high school reunions and when people ask my son if I'm his sister. But really, what's so good about looking 25 when you're 42? Damn it, I've earned every one of these stinking grey hairs on my head thanks to cancer, burying loved ones and divorce! Why am I in such a hurry to cover them up and get folks I don't really even know to think I'm younger than I am? Have I lost my daggone mind?

This weekend I'll have time to dye my hair, but I'm not sure if I will. So if you see me around town looking like a skunk, just smile and wave, folks. Just smile and wave...

Assault & Battery

Every music fan in the world has heard about singers Rihanna and Chris Brown: squeaky-clean R&B star accused of using his girlfriend as a punching bag. People were shocked to see the photo that showed Rihanna's bruised face and just as surprised when court documents revealed that he allegedly threatened to kill her on Grammy night. Personally, I was more shocked at how she was characterized via some media outlets: as a controlling, domineering girlfriend who was insecure about her relationship. It was like somehow, her actions had caused him to snap.

Just for the record, domestic violence is never the fault of the person being battered. It isn't what was or wasn't said or was or wasn't done that causes the a batterer to get physical no more than it is the bottle's fault an alcoholic gets drunk. That I know from personal experience.

My dirty little secret is this: I was once in a relationship with a person who hit, pushed and choked me. Doesn't matter that it only happened a few times, each time was frightening and followed by a promise that it would never happen again. After a particularly bad incident - our last - I left and only came back after he promised to seek help and find a counselor. Eventually, he did, it didn't help and we're not together today. But it took me a while to get to that "Enough!" point, evident by the fact that I went back to that idiot not once, but twice.

Now, there is buzz about a possible fan back lash against Rihanna because of her decision to go back to her boyfriend. Getting beaten up by your mate is one thing, but falling for the apology and actually taking him back is a whole 'nother story, the consensus seems to be, implying that she's stupid for being willing to let bygones be bygones. "Is she crazy?" we ask each other.

Probably not - just a young woman in love who hasn't reached her own "Enough!" point yet. Eventually, she will. I just hope it isn't after he hurts her so badly that she won't really have a choice.

Grandma Gets the Shaft

I try to visit my grandmother at least once a month in the Bronx nursing home where she's now been for two years since being diagnosed with dementia. I know the nursing staff, they know me and someone always has some (usually) funny story to tell me about Grandma's exploits when I arrive.

But last Sunday was different. Two of my aunts, my son and I arrived only to find that she had been moved to another building in the facility FIVE DAYS earlier. The move changed all that had become routine and familiar over the last two years for her, including her doctors and nurses, her social worker, her room and roommate. And to make matters worse, no one from the facility even bothered to call and let me - listed as the family contact person on every record they have - know what the heck was going on.

Steamed, I called the administrative office first thing Monday morning to find out who would now be the contact on the nursing home's end if the family had questions or concerns. The new social worker was not in at 9:15am, so I left a message. I left another at 11am and was about to leave yet another at 11:30am when she finally answered her phone. Her weak apology over how their lack of contact forced our visit to begin like a wild goose chase did little to make me feel better. And that she just didn't get that bothered me even more.

The nursing home is over an hour away. The main reason I haven't transfered my grandmother closer is because she seemed comfortable and had developed a routine and good relationship with her roommate. Convenience for me didn't seem like enough of a reason to cause her any undue stress. But not only has that apple cart now been upset, nobody thought it important enough to notify the family about what was going on or why it was necessary. Does it really seem like her best interests are even a concern?

I asked the social worker about the procedure for having Grandma moved to another nursing home and found out the leg work will be on me as far as finding one in our area that takes Medicaid and that has a space for her. I just have to call her with the info when I find one, Ms. Social Worker said. I wanted to reach through the phone, grab her by the collar and shake the spit our of her mouth for all the help she offered. Instead, I thanked her and hung up.

This crap is so overwhelming it isn't even funny.

Bug Invasion!

OK - squeamish, I'm not. Blood and gore barely make me flinch (I once watched a 12-hour marathon of "The Operation" after all), but for some reason, groups of bugs have always freaked me out. I can deal with a ladybug or two, but I would probably faint upon discovering a bunch of them moving along a wall or something. I actually showered for over an hour not too long ago when a brick I moved from the corner of the patio made a couple of pincher bugs hanging from the bottom fall on my foot. Still get itchy just thinking about it...

So imagine my surprise when I lifted a potted plant last week and found the thing teaming with carpenter ants. Yep - I screamed, dropped the plant and ran like I was being chased by a very quick dog. My son, who just stood there looking at me like I'd finally lost my mind (it probably looked like I did) put the plant in a bag and took it outside. He threw some snow in the planter while I peeked from the window. Even my partner shook his head when I told him what happened. He thought it was quite comical that I can step into a sparring ring at karate tournaments ready to do battle with almost anyone, but a few ants made me want to sell the house. A few?!?

We did the research, found out those big, crawling monsters don't actually EAT wood, just live in it (the plant was on top of a wooden speaker in my living room) and discovered that to get rid of them, we had to find the nest (probably outside of the house) and destroy it. But just in case they'd set up shop in the house, my partner decided to take the speaker outside and check it out. Afraid of what he might find, I actually had to leave the house as he and my son moved the speaker to the porch and opened it up in search of more ants. Thankfully, there were none, but now somebody's got to look around the house's foundation and in nearby trees for wood that might be hiding the nest. That somebody won't be me - although I'll be with them in spirit, watching from behind the window curtains. Seriously, if the housing market weren't so bad, I'm sure we could get rid of the house and find another bug-free one nearby...

The fellas seem to think we'll see more bugs as it gets warmer. Anybody know where I can get an cheap anteater?

How the Budget Deficit Effects the Little Guy First

I'm happily divorced (might sound terrible, but it is oh-so-true) and have been since my son was six. Although it has stopped and started more than once and the amount has decreased by about 70% since it began, the child support my ex is required to send to help care for our child has been regular and consistent for about three years now. Until today, that is.

My ex's obligation is $150 per month. But because I had to hire the county attorney for court to find out why child support simply stopped for two years back in 2002, only $113 makes it to my mailbox (payment for the attorney is taken directly out of the support payments). Today's check - a late payment for January - was a whopping $88. Turns out the great state of New York is now charging an annual $25 administrative fee to distribute child support to the custodial families that need it. Whose brilliant idea was that?

$25 may not seem like a lot, but it really translates to a month's worth of haircuts or school lunches or a much-needed prescription or well-visit co-pay. For a custodial parent struggling to make ends meet and keep roof overhead and food on the table, that $25 could actually make a big difference. That may not be my reality, but it is for too many.

Seriously, whose brilliant idea was it to charge children to access money that belongs to them anyway?

Ode to Mr. Webb

This morning, I got a call about one of the members of our church who recently died. He actually passed away on Thursday but no one from the church knew until Sunday morning.

Mr. Webb was 90-years-old. He sang a solo virtually every Sunday and was the only male that consistently lent his strong baritone to the choir. Although his family mostly lived in New York City, he lived in Beacon and attended church in Newburgh. I spent the morning wondering how his family members were notified of his passing.

Although a bit younger, my dad - who moved to New Jersey in 1993 shortly after my mother died - also lived alone quite a distance away from most of his family. He died suddenly from a heart attack in 2005 while driving along Rte 287. I have often wondered how I would have found out about his death had he passed away in his apartment. A regular church-goer when he was a kid, he didn't have a church home in New Jersey. I didn't even think to try to find a pastor's name or number when he died. I did place a notice in his area's local daily newspaper, but his funeral was held at the same church my mother's was - almost 100 miles away from the New Jersey neighborhood he'd called home for a dozen years.

About a week ago, Mr. Webb asked me about an envelope he'd need to contribute to one of our church funds. As he slipping into his coat, I told him I would make sure I connected with him next week to get him one. Sadly, that connection was never made. Just goes to show you how much tomorrow is not promised to anyone.

Rest in Peace, Mr. Webb...

My First Time (it's not what you think!)

While waiting in the chiropractor's office to have him work his magic on my aching back, I thumbed through a health magazine. On the last page was a reader-written essay about the first time something new was attempted for better health. At the end was an invitation for other readers to send in their 400-word "first time" pieces. So I sent in this:

Kiai!: How Donning a Karate Gi Rejuvenated Me
by Felicia Hodges

I’ve always been very physically active. In grade school it was kickball, tag and later, the middle school’s softball team (I played first base). As a freshman in high school, a few moths after watching my uncle in the NYC marathon, I decided to give the track team a try. I ran and jumped my way right into an athletic scholarship, seeing the US and earning a B.A. without any school loans hanging over my head after graduation.

Through career shifts, marriage, pregnancy and divorce, I kept competing. In July 2004, I retired from the sport so I could work on my master’s and still keep up with my then 11-yr-old son. A few days after I started graduate school in August, I found a pea-sized lump in my right breast.

Thanksgiving break was spent recovering from a bilateral mastectomy. In February, after watching my son do kata from the balcony of the dojo while trying to read my school assignments, I decided to take the sensei up on the offer to join the class. Since track had ended, I hadn’t even run to the refrigerator. I missed being active. I missed sweating.

And sweat, we did – thanks to the generous helpings of pushups, jumping jacks and ab work sensei dished out. At least that was familiar – unlike the stances, katas and punching/kicking drills. I felt like the world’s least coordinated person for quite a while (which sensei assured me was totally normal), but it felt really good to hit something. Plus we were encouraged to scream loudly while punching and kicking. Physically yelling while hitting a heavy bag proved to be pretty darn therapeutic - and a whole lot cheaper than psychotherapy.

Three weeks before my last radiation treatment, I entered my first competition, (I wore a hard foam protector to keep the radiated chest from getting hit). That did it: my passion for a new physical activity was ignited.

Next May, I will test for my black belt and close in on my five year “cancerversary”. Through all the physical changes breast cancer brought, karate was the one constant, proving that I may have had cancer, but cancer didn’t really have me because I could do stuff that I’d never even tried before my diagnosis. I’m so glad I donned a gi and decided to line up in the back of that class. Sweating is good for the soul.

Made it - in exactly 400 words...

Pinkwash '08

With all the excitement over the election, I truly forgot to toss some confetti when November 1st - the date that marks the end of Breast Cancer Awareness Month - rolled around.

What's so bad about the pink ribbons, you ask? Nothing would be if awareness were truly the goal or if it was all that we needed (in reality, a cure would be nice). Sadly though, the pink that is seemingly everywhere from the end of September through October is sometimes just as much about the money raised for the corporations that design the products than making this cancer go away.

Last year, the product that really made me aware of the "pinkwash" was Campbell's Soup. My local Price Chopper supermarket had a big bin of pink-labeled cans near the front door with a sign inviting shoppers to "Help Find a Cure." Trouble was that no where on the cotton candy-colored labels was there any mention of how much money from the sale of each can was to be donated or where the money was going.

This year, it was the $400 pink Dyson vacuum cleaner I saw in Target that nearly sent me over the edge. I suppose in some marketing genius' mind, pink cleaning products promote consciousness about breast cancer, but I just don't see the connection. Since most women don't think that anything as bad as a breast cancer diagnosis will happen to them, pink ribbons may remind them to get their annual mammogram or do regular breast self-exams, but I doubt the thought washes over us while tidying up around the house.

To me, the real problem is that not everyone is truly aware of the wide swath of devastation this disease can leave in its wake. I lost my mom in '92 to this stupid disease and I still didn't really understand it until my own breasts fell victim 12 years later.

182,460 new cases of invasive breast cancer will be diagnosed in the US this year. That's close to 200,000 women faced with surgery, radiation and/or chemotherapy soon after hearing "It's cancer." Almost 41,000 American women will die from it in 2008 as well. That's a whole lot of families, partners, friends and neighbors who now must find a way to get through their daily routines without them. Since breast cancer is one of the most funded cancers, great strides have been made in early detection techniques and treatments in the past 10 years, but still people are dying. Treatments are wonderful – as is helping women find out they have breast cancer while it is still in its earliest, most treatable stages – but where the heck is the cure?

Think about it: if all the pink products that slap an awareness ribbon on their label actually donated a portion of their total proceeds to breast cancer research, this disease probably would have gone the way of the dinosaur by now. But so many of them either cap their contributions, give such a tiny percentage of each sale to the cause or give to organizations that have such high administrative overhead that only a tiny amount actually gets funneled to research and development for finding an actual cure.

Please, before you buy a pink feather duster or toss another container of yogurt or soup with a pink ribbon on it into your shopping cart, read the label to see how much of their donation – if any – will actually benefit women who are battling breast cancer or help ensure that a cure will be found someday soon. Unless it is a product you absolutely need, don't feel obligated to buy just because the label is the color of Pepto Bismol or the words "Breast Cancer" appear on the package. Instead, send a few dollars to local groups you know are helping women and their families (like Miles of Hope Breast Cancer Foundation) - and continue to pray that a cure for this stinking disease will be found before this little lady pictured above grows boobs.

Standing on the Verge of History

After almost two years of campaign stumping and speeches, Election Day is finally almost here. Wow...

New York is not one of the states that has early voting, so like everyone else in the Empire State, I'll head to the polls tomorrow hoping the lines aren't too crazy. As many are predicting the largest voter turnout in US History and some have waited on line for hours to vote early, I'm bringing a folding chair just in case.

No matter the final outcome, tomorrow will be historic. Never has there been an African-American president or a female vice president, which is definitely adding to the excitement. But none of it will matter if you don't get out and cast your vote. It's too important not to.

My Visit to See Grandma

My grandmother will be 88 next month. She's spent the last 18 months in a nursing home in the Bronx after being diagnosed with dementia. Fiercely independent, she'd lived alone in the same a one-bedroom apartment in Harlem for over 50 years.

Last week, I got a call from her doctor that she'd fallen out of bed and broken her forearm. She had to be taken to a nearby hospital for x-rays and returned to the nursing home two days later. Today I finally got down to visit and she looked incredibly small and frail. Her speech is getting worse (she mumbles most everything she says) and she just seems to have lost her spunk. I don't know what to do with that.

My house is exactly 70 miles away from the nursing home. I'm only able to get down to visit about once a month. She's always happy to see me (although she calls me by my mother's name), but I really don't know much about her day-to-day in the hours I'm not there. Her best buddy is her roommate, Ms. Nancy, whose house my grandmother thought for the longest time she was actually staying in. I've thought about moving grandma to a nursing home upstate, but because she had adjusted and seemed comfortable, it didn't seem necessary. But now Ms. Nancy is in the hospital and has been for about a month and my grandmother just doesn't seem to be thriving like before.

Dementia is such an ugly thing, robbing its victims of their memories and even their words. I hate most that it seems to make its victims complacent; my grandmother and most of the other people on her floor seem totally oblivious to the lives they had before they had to pack up and move everything into a 10' x 20' room.

So what will the next visit be like? How long will it be before she no longer knows my son's name or even remembers me? Perhaps this is scarier for us - the family that knew her well before the brain synapses began to fail - than it is for her. We can kind of guess at what is coming. She has no idea...