Potbelly Screwfest

I really try hard to make something of my life. I put a lot of thought and energy into *most* of my life projects. So when I come across a successful idea despite itself... well, it really hacks me off.

I've been to Potbelly at least a handful of times. At first the charm of this place "being different" is what drew me back. Then, once I got to know Potbelly better, it donned my list of Places Never To Eat At.

Why, you ask? Well, the food is mediocre. My friend Kristen says "the bread hurts my mouth." Cody calls Potbelly "Pothelly." Then there's the ambiance. The cackling sound of loud employees shouting orders while you're eating? Deffening. It's anyplace but the place to go to digest your food peacefully. And the "line design?" Read on!

Soup's On... Not

My first poor experience with Potbelly happened a month ago. My coworker David and I decided we wanted soup and he said Potbelly had a good potato soup, so we bolted to forage for food. I realize the place can get busy at lunch, but I've never understood why workers YELL across the line of customers at the counter to take orders from the folks further down the line. Some might call that endearing. I call it irritatingly unnecessary. DO YOU REALLY LIKE PEOPLE YELLING AT YOU BEFORE THEY TAKE YOUR MONEY? I know! Me either.

After wading through the line and finally making it to the register, the register lady asked "What did you have." I said "A bowl of soup to go." She said "You don't have to wait in line to order soup." I said "Oh, I didn't know. There's no sign here to indicate that." The lady went to retrieve the soup and as luck would have it, they were out.

No Soup For You

She offered to give me some frozen soup, but yeah, not so much. My favorite part was when she asked "Can I get you anything?" I said "Yeah, how about some hot soup?" The blood rushed to my face as I realized this lady was just a pre-programmed myna bird. She looked to be about 35 and I was frustrated how at that point in life, someone has mailed it in and chosen to not use their brain.

Thar She Blows

I decided that I'd have to give register lady a life lesson from the line so she might be of some use for future customers (my guess is that Potbelly didn't have an effective training program). I said - "You know what would be really awesome? If the people behind the counter actually talked to each other. Not yell, but talk. You're out of soup but the guy YELLING orders at the front of the line has no idea. It would be really awesome if you could let him know so other customers don't have to wait in line for soup they can't have."

The lady said she would tell the line, but as I waited for my friend David to collect his sandwich and not his soup, I noticed she just went along her merry pre-programmed way.

Frustrated, I sent in a complaint to the Potbelly website when I got back to the office. Surprisingly I received a reply the next day from a regional manager who offered her apologies.

I decided to sweep this experience under the Potbelly rug as just an untimely event... until...

Screwfest, Part II

I decided I could be bigger than that bowl of soup I couldn't have, so a few days later I went in to get a shake. Danielle said I'd love the shake. This time, instead of standing in line, I stood under the "To Go" sign and asked the counter lady for a shake to go. She said "You need to stand in that line over there (pointing to the other register). I said "OK," and got into formation.

I stood at the register and watched register guy ring up three customers who were coming downstream toward me. It was true. I didn't exist. Since I wasn't coming at him "from his left," apparently I wasn't going to get service.

The best part is when I turned to my left to ask counter lady what I should do, a customer had just walked-up to the counter and asked for a shake and counter lady started making it!

WTF, I thought. Why is she making the other customer a shake, but I had to wait in line... only to be ignored by register guy? I was losing it. I wanted that damn shake and I was going to get it!

A lady coming downstream looked at me with a puzzled look on her face. I said "I'm sorry, I've been standing here for three customers and I need to place my order." Register guy looked up and at me like "What are YOU doing here?" I said "Excuse me. I was told to stand here to order a shake and you've been ignoring me for three customers now. Can you please get me a shake?"

The guy looked completely dumbfounded. I guess "Irritated Shake Customer" didn't make the cut for the employee training manual. Worst off, he made my shake. I'm assuming he spat in it, but you know what? That was the best tasting shake of my whole life. Why? Because I earned it. The hard way.

Shake It Off

At my age, I have to try and keep my blood pressure down, so I decided to just let it go. "Serenity now, Patrick" I said. And I did let it go (well, sorta). Truth was I was too old for Potbelly. I realized I needed to restrict my dining adventures to places where people have brains and think on the job.

I learned firsthand that the Potbelly experience simply sucks. Whoever designed the Potbelly line needs to be forced to order from it. Then be fired. It's truly a usability issue you'd think a restaurant that is franchising itself across the country would pick-up and fix.

For me? The next time I want a sandwich or a shake, Potbelly won't make the cut.

DO YOU HEAR ME?

DO YOU?


Oh. My List Of Places Never To Eat At, You Ask?

1. Any restaurant with a buffet. Buffets are just gross.
2. Any restaurant where you order through a line (sorry Luby's).
3. Mi Cocina in the Dallas Galleria - they stole my glasses.
4. ... and Potbelly, without a doubt!

Bibbenfuckers

If you’re looking for a locally grown dry cleaner, this one’s here.

If you’re looking for a locally grown dry cleaner who takes your money while ruining your clothes, keep on reading.

Dirty Origin

Back in the day before I knew better, I found a new dry cleaner that I visited for few months. “Bibbentuckers” had drive-up service and since I’m a busy ad guy with little time to iron, I rationalized paying them a premium for cleaning my clothes.

My bi-weekly bills, however, started to top 3-digits left of the decimal and I started becoming aware that while the clothes were nicely packaged ($6 at the time for a linen shirt), I could throw away my clothes and buy new ones for not much more money.

The true test was the day when I pulled a blue shirt from the closet while getting ready for work. It had a weird banded stain on the collar where it looked like the pressing machine was left on while someone daydreamed over a tuna sandwich while watching “Days Of Our Lives."

Rumpled, I put it back in the closet and reached for another. Same result.

There were three shirts in all that had the freaky collar stain and I was cleaned out of blue shirts to wear.

Collar Hollar

I took the shirts to Bibbentuckers and explained the situation to the employee. They said they’d run the shirts through again and for me to come back in 2-3 days, which I did. I assumed they would have addressed the matter and put a note on the clothes if in fact they couldn’t solve the problem. What’s worse is they charged me to process the shirts again and as you guessed, the pressed stains were all still there.

Bibbenfuckers Was Born

I took the shirts back again and explained the situation. I said that while I had gone ahead and paid them the first time to fix the error of their ways, the stains were still there. I didn’t understand why it was “hand over fist” to take my money while paying no attention to fixing the stain. Not even a “Hey buddy – we can’t fix it.”

So after the second chance to fix things, my shirts were ruined.

Pissed, I was left baffled how Bibbenfuckers could ignore the situation. They have a customer id card tied to an account with all my information. And to this day no calls. No inquiries as to where my money has gone.

Which reminds me…

Ode To My Three Shirts

My blue shirts of three

Oh how I miss thee

Hate me not

I have not forgot

They took my money.

They ruined you shirts

The dirty cleaners Bibbentuckers

Run amuck by motherfuckers

Cleaned Out Again? You betcha! Consumer Victim Style. Read all about it here.

American Home Shaft

I'm not sure where the saying "peace of mind" came from, but when I think of American Home Shield, I think "piece of crap."

American Home Shaft (as I call them) has been taking my money each month for over 10 years. I pay them because I'm supposed to have someone to call on that makes my life simpler; a company to call on when the going gets tough. Well, that’s what they want you to believe.

Recently, I've had the chance to see how AHS really responds in periods of crisis... and it's pretty damn ugly.

In The Heat Of It

Imagine living in Texas in summer. It's hot and the sun is beating down on your head like a heavyweight boxer beating the face of his wet noodle opponent. Imagine it being 100+ degrees. You retreat indoors only to find that your air conditioning isn't working.

It's actually hotter than Brad Pitt wearing Wonder Sauna Hot Pants in a sauna in Hades during a hot summer day heatwave! (Yeah, I know - that's hot!)

Hotter inside than out. Your heartbeat quickens and you pace around like Ed Grimley only to realize there's nowhere to go. You pick up the phone and talk to some jerkwad from American Home Shaft who tells you it'll be 4 days until they have the time to send someone out.

4 Days? Really?

How would you like to come sit in this hot box for 4 days while I sit and watch your automatic deposit go into my account?

Turns out - loosely translated, “American Home Shield” means “no sense of urgency” and they’ve mastered the art of that to the “t”.

The best part is that when something isn’t fixed right and you call back in, they send out the same company that can’t get their shit straight or else you have to pay a new fee. Three cheers for apathy!

I start to wonder if the companies that align with Home Shaft aren’t just bottom feeders that can’t make it in the real world; companies that suck and they accept it. So they flock to the mother fu$king shiphole who brings them customers. Customer service doesn’t matter because “they aren’t our customers,” right?

Shaft Attack

After investing June and July 2009 into hoping and praying that someone in the AHS network will know how to get an air system working, we gave up. Well, I said it first so that means we broke it off, right? Well, not really. Home Shaft stopped returning our phone calls so we’re on the search for our own AC company.

American
Home
Shaft - what customers do you serve?

Are you looking in the mirror?

Get Along Little Doggies

One of my many skills is as a locator of "the poo." And while I've become great at finding poo-like situations, I've also become an afficianado at side-stepping them. Well, most of the time.

My next journey seemed harmless on the surface. But with a little help from a not-so-neighborly neighbor, one might think I'm a horrible person for sticking a small sign in my front yard touting my doggie store.

A Sign By Design

It was harmless sign, on the surface. A flying doggie and two bulleted lines of copy separated by little doggie bones. Cute, huh? We had folks smiling and double-taking as they went down the street. You see, in a sea of yard signs, ours stuck out because it was advertising a "home-based" business, which later I was told via a red ticket was a violation of shitty code.

So, as an advertising professional, this led me to ponder. Really? A violation? How did they know I officed out of my home? Who cares!?! What's the difference between my sign and any of the plethora of advertising messages I found in my neighborhood during one 30-minute doggie walk (pics shown in this post were taken with my iPhone and trust me, I have more):

• A new garage for $16,995!
  
• Multiple religious signs proclaining "He is risen" (sorry, God, just questioning. I have a friend who doesn't believe in you, so these signs may offend him.)
• My child's a Stonewall Star.
• We had a baby!
• A for sale sign with an Agent glamor shot so big I thought at first the person was for sale, not the house.
• Painters for hire.
• New fences for sale.
• Political signs pushing us to vote "YES" or "NO" (remember in Dallas "YES" means "NO" and "NO" means "YES." Clear?)
• Even an alarm sign (below) posted on the parkway, which is against city code, too. But we won't tell - that's our good neighbor policy, since it's not hurting anyone.
  

The list goes on and on. And God forbid if any of these people office out of their home. For shame!

This experience made me realize...

... a sign by its very DNA is like a commercial on sticks. Signs advertise. And at the very nucleus of each and every sign is an ad pushing for whatever message it sports. God. Political views. Things for sale. Whatever.

So while I'm not advocating a 30 foot tall neon blinky Sally's Massage & Nail Salon sign be erected in neighborhoods, what's the beef with a emerging legitimate small business based out of a garage apartment trying to make its way in a crummy economy via an 18" x 24" sign?

To some (or at least two shallow thinkers), the beef was... we existed.

Un Segno

The Italians call it un segno (literally "a sign"). For me, the sign rang clear that this wasn't just a routine "found violation," it was deliberate. As it turns out the city code employee "Oscar" confirmed we were outed by our neighbor (Oscar, props to you for being so cool about the situation).

So it turns out this was just another violation we amassed for being horrible neighbors. Other violations?:

• Outed for not having a fence permit. Guilty!
• Outed for having 6 inches of a low voltage lighting cord exposed from underneath our mulch behind our front yard bushes. Guilty!
• Outed for our dog barking in the back yard. Guilty! (Hey Harley, please don't ever stop being a dog!) Turns out Harley wasn't the nuisance - our neighbors are.
  

It's starting to get comical at this point.

I think this year we ought to play it safe and read-up on the city codes governing halloween decorations. We're big believers in that. And then there's Christmas.

In the meantime, our wonderful little sign is doing just fine. It's available for parties and guest appearances, as long as you're not advertising your home-based business!


Side Note to Shitty Officials:

This code mumbo leads me to wonder...

...would it be OK if one of our good neighbors posted my doggie sign in their yard? They don't have a home-based business — I do.

Didn't think so.

Man's Best Fiend

"It was a dark and stormy night."

Wait - scratch that - that's the opening for an upcoming post.

"It was the best of times, it the worst of times."

For us, this moment was a great one to remember: Sending our first child together off to school for the very first time.

Of course things were a little "different" than one might have expected. The couple sending off was not man and woman, but man and man. And the kid? An adorable chocolate Lab puppy named "Boomer."

Wide-eyed and a little on the crazy side, Boomer was like most Lab puppies - a little A.D.D. mixed-in with a lot of energy and wrapped with cuteness, which meant he was forgiven for most of the damage he bestowed on our home (sorry, I still say your baby tooth didn't "get caught" on the sofa, like Joe insists... it's OK - the duct tape covering the 2" tear is an accepted member of this household).

We decided that as prudent parents, we'd enlist Boomer into canine bootcamp. We did some searching. Joe had heard good things about "Man's Best Friend," so we bundled up the little booger and headed to Carrollton for a site visit.

The Grass Is Greener

We were introduced to a salesguy who pimped the greatness of Man's Best Friend (MBF). We were shuffled to training rooms where we were counseled on the flawless recipe of MBF perfection. Hanging on the walls were letters from other people, like us, who wanted the best for their babies. So we were in!

We had two training options: 1) Leave Boomer there for training by their staff or 2) Schedule 1-on-1 sessions with us present. We didn't feel right about someone else bonding with our little guy, so we opted for the 1-on-1 sessions. There were 10 in the package we puchased, which worked out to $500 (or $50 each for one hour sessions).

Things appeared to be headed in the right direction. We were learning how to throw-down commands like "Sit!" "Stay!" "Down!". Our first 3 lessons were with a guy named "Jimmy" and he was pretty funny. His East Texas twang was fun to listen to and we were excited when Boomer did something correct and Jimmy would bust out "Good Boooooooy-yaaahh!"

One day we learned Jimmy was no longer with MBF and we were given another trainer. Then soon another. There were five trainers in all and we soon learned why MBF was the epi-center of dysfuntion junction.

Nobody Knew What Boomer Was Learning, But Joe and Me!

Maybe my expectations were too high, but I thought that when we had scheduled time the traininers would show up on time. One day they even forgot an appointment all-together, which didn't bring out the best in me. But when we realized the notes they were taking in Boomer's file were probably sketches or games with self for tic-tac-toe, I drew the line.

It seems at the beginning of every lesson we (the humans) were being drilled what what Boomer had learned previously. This was because nobody was reading the file and nobody knew what Boomer knew, but us.

Final Canine Exam

The day came for Boomer's final exam and we were a little nervous. Not because of Boomer, but because of what curve ball Man's Best Fiend (as they now were dubbed) might throw Boomer's way.

• Would Jimmy show back up?
• Would another trainer [ insert new name here ] show-up with a lot of questions?
• Or would a trainer fail to show-up at all?
  

During the test, things were promising. Until they asked us to execute a command we had never heard of. "A reverse sit?," I said? "Yes, a reverse sit."

...b-bbbbut we don't know of that?

At first I thought myself totally disconnected from the rest of the family. Had I not been paying attention in class? How could I have forgotten this drill? I felt like the runt of the pack until Joe confirmed it: "Nobody showed us that!"

"That's right," I said!

Turns out Man's Best Fiend in all their glorious note-taking had forgotten to show us the reverse sit. And while we believed Boomer was the best-looking and smartest kid in town, no canine knows the "reverse sit" without being shown first.

So there we were. The awkward moment when everyone is looking at everyone. Boomer's "choo-choo train" panting was the only thing cutting the cold, flat nothingness filling the air.

Clearly the right thing to do was give us Boomer's blue ribbon, pat us on the back for all the driving to Carrollton from downtown Dallas for months and usher us out the door and check the box.

But what we heard next ensued rage - "I can't pass Boomer because he doesn't know the reverse sit."

"That's it? Those are the options?" Molten lava, here I come!

"Get 'em!, Boomer! GET HIM!"

After I laid into "Buddy" the mean trainer for a couple of minutes he finally understood why we were upset. Oh yeah, we paid $500 for training and now we were being told our unfit dog failed. I don't think so, Buddy.

We were given the option of coming back for another 2-3 sessions "at no cost to us" and Joe and I looked at each other and with the precision of a figure skater who nailed the triple axle with eyes closed and arms tied, we both said "Nuh-uhh!"

"It's not like Boomer needs this piece of paper to drive a car," I said. "And we're not being subjected to any more clueless trainers or racking-up miles on the car. This is the end of the canine line."

The Pearls Of Wisdom From This Dysfunction Are Clear

Make sure you fully understand the exact training your dog will receive. Get it in writing along with a definition of "success." For us, all we got was a receipt they took our money.

Know who - and the caliber of - your instructor(s). It's not that the fiends rotated out instructors on us that was bad (in fact that could have been good). But it was the fact that our training turned into a game of "drop the hot potato"... at our expense.

Referrals rule. The letters on the wall at MBF were great merits of honor. But I realized that for every 5 good letters, there were probably some wayward souls, like us, who had been ushered into the wrong alley.

The next alley that MBF ushers our family into - they better watch out. I have two Labs now. And Harley McFartley hasn't been trained "by professionals" at all. And he and Boomer can lick someone to death.

OSC = Oh Shit Commerce

Visions of Dog Bones.
Lots And Lots Of Dog Bones!

After 15 months of contemplating opening a specialty doggie store, I helped pen a 50-page business plan that articulates every nook and cranny of what would set our concept apart from the pack. If you've never penned a business plan, a good one can take weeks to compile. This one would prove no different.

My one-minute "elevator speech" of what "Flying Doggies!" would become may need some polishing because after hearing it some remark - "Oh, a dog store!" I am quick to correct... "Not a dog store - a dog specialty store." It's then I find it a little hard to describe with precision why our store would be different from the others.

One skill I do have with precision is the ability to assume the role of "Crafty Patty," as some call me. Give me some tape and ribbon and I will build your dream. I was able to cleverly bind the business plan ensuring us of not just an approved loan but a teaser rate to boot - and off we went to CHASE to get our SBA loan. "Did you see that clever binder?," they'd say.

The process is quite tedious. There's the pitch. The jazz hands. The forms. The follow-up phone calls. The waiting. The unreturned phone calls yielding deafening silence accompanied by more waiting.

One day Joe received a call and the bank revealed we were "pre-approved for the loan." "Great news!," we thought until literally the same week we learned of something called a credit crunch and the loan - much faster that it took to be approved - was pulled away from us. "You're still approved... just check back with us in November or December."

What would we do? How would the store take shape with no funding?

In Walked "osCommerce"

After discussing the situation with friends - most of which who were small business owners or former owners, I learned I needed to think beyond a brick and mortar store. "The web!," they said. The web would be my silver bullet!

Despite being in the web-building business for eight years, I am not a programmer. I work with programmers, but I don't know how to do their job - I just manage them.

I heard of osCommerce before and quickly became more aware of what it had to offer:

Free? That's awesome! I have no money. Tell me more!

Fully Tested? Wow - built by programmers? I'm sure they thought of lots of things I could only dream of. And it's free?!

Easy? Sounds a little too easy, but I'm a blogger now so I can publish a site *and* highlight text. I think I'm qualified. Sign me up!

So there I was - at the fork in the road were credit crunch veered left and money rainbows veered right. I was the newest user of osCommerce and my doggie dreams were just a few clicks and an F5 page refresh away. Or so I thought.

Oh, Shit!

Soon after setting up the main modules of the store, I learned that osCommerce wasn't the next coming. "It's free," my friend Nann said. "You need to be patient. Don't expect too much!"

"In most cases, sex is also free," I thought. I expect lots of things with that, too. Plus, osCommerce had to transform me from middle-aged workaholic into middle-aged millionaire. While I didn't have a career goal - or even a retirement plan - I did have the goal to see money finally flow into my account. I'd soon have my own informercial selling rights to my concept all while me and my dogs took exotic trips, drank fancy wine ("Doghouse" is our favorite) and checked the monthly statement confirming our large automatic transfers from our business checking into our play account.

"osCommerce" is short for "Open Source Commerce," Nann said. "It means that it's free and you can't expect too much."

"I get it," I said. But I need to be able to feature specific products on my home page - not just the last one entered. I need to be able to show multiple products shots - not just one that's sized like all the rest. I need to be able to know what people ordered if they shut down the window on PayPal before returning to my site. I'm aware of the user forum where I can troll for fixes but it's written by developers for developers, which I am not. So while there may be a fix for certain things, the mother code isn't fully functional the way I expect it to be.

Is all that too much to ask for?

The answer hurts. "For free, it is."

In Search Of Good, Free .php Developer

I often look in the mirror and think back... surely me - the guy who builds websites for a living would have a connection or two. A developer who could help take my site to the next level. Make it an overnight eCommerce miracle.

Alas I am not that person.

I do have awesomely great connections yet they are cul-de-sacs when it comes time to whip out some tedious .php code.

So at the top of my list for Santa to bring me in 2009 is a bright, talented and free PhD of the .php. A person who has already accumulated the spiritual or financial wealth s|he needs to live a healthy, happy life.

And me? I'll be the next charity case expecting digital hand-outs. Fast. Free. And flawlessly functional.

I don't sound too demanding, do I?

DO I?!?!

How You Can Help: If you're not a lightening-fast .php Developer, than your choices are clear: Get our your credit cards, visit Flying Doggies! online and buy like the wind! If you don't have a dog, that's OK. Surely you know someone who has a dog... and that someone has a birthday coming up... or there's Christmas 2009 right around the corner! Plus you can tell everyone you know of the store and how hard I've been working to make it an online delight.

Thanks for your support! When I reach my first million, you'll undoubtedly be included in my acceptance speech I make at CHASE.

osCommerce: Please get better for those who need you so badly, like me and all the "Flying Doggies" to be. A little care and feeding will go a long, long way.

Aqua Globes = Aqua Scam!

This company will take your money by tricking you. I know this because they took mine!

Watch out for... the "Aqua Globes!"

They overcharged me for a single set... then doubled my over charged order over $100 for what was a $15 purchase!

It's an Aqua Scam, folks!

Taj Garage

Thar she be.

She sported square lines (some called her boxy). She was worn. Could barely stand. We never knew how old she was, but we guessed she had been raised in the 70s.

Yep. There she was. Right in my backyard. Staring back at me with a tattered, bruised soul.

There was... my garage.

She was detached from the house - a standard feature of the 20s where garages were built detached, or not at all.

I had just "upgraded" from my one-car garage at my former house so was excited we could get two cars in her. But it wasn't pretty.

First off, when we purchased our house, we also purchased a missing remote for the garage door opener, so we had to manually lift or lower the door each time we moved cars. After numerous searches to find a remote replacement, we gave up. Turned out her garage door brain (the motor) was so old new openers didn't like her. Then there was the duct tape holding a cracked window pane together. Some would call that character, but I called it trashy. And structurally? The western wall would quite literally sway in the wind because it was so rotten, you could see through it. A result of years of poor water drainage left ignored.

Perhaps the biggest surprise was she had an active termite colony under her. This little nugget we learned the first week we moved into our new home after a "misunderstanding" with the inspection company, when they revealed they wouldn't inspect detached structures. So the termites went unnoticed during the inspection process.

After seven months of cursing her, we finally agreed to put her broken soul to rest. We were going to erect something magnificent. Along the lines of the Taj Mahal, but garage-like.

We were going to erect our first Taj Garage.

Wanted: Good Contractor

But who would build this magnificent structure? Like most, we didn't have a "GC" in our hip pocket. We asked around but no referrals. So we made a short-list of people to call from yard signs posted around the area.

During the bid process, we were quoted numbers all over the board. Some guys were thrice the price of others, which convinced me they were just throwing out numbers to see if we'd bite. Regardless, all the numbers were outside our budget of $30k. $30k? For a garage?

This is true. Despite being advised otherwise, we wanted a two-story garage so the second floor could house a small office or at least provide more storage given our space-starved "main cabin." Since we were going to have to get a loan to pay for this sucker, we opted to stretch outside our initial budget and go for the gold.

We finally settled in on a contractor named Homer*. He was clean-cut. Spoke English. And lived nearby, so he was a known entity. He was also one of the few who could see an estimate into our hands. And he got the job.

And the walls...

The day finally came for demo. There was an excitement that could be felt throughout the house. We hoped we were making the right decision because once she was gone, she was gone.

The deconstruction took about 3 hours. Hammers, saws and the sheer force of three men were used to finally level the former garage. Like tigers dragging their innocent kill to the ground.

Construction Dysfunction

Shortly after the construction began, we learned that the framers were holding-up the show. Each day after work I'd inspect what (if anything) had been done that day. I soon learned the framers were working at the pace of two 1/2 days per week. At this rate, our garage would take years - not weeks - to build!

I tried to reason with Homer and was told "they aren't my employees," so how could I expect him to crack the whip?!? Really?

The tides began to turn. And turn they did. We later learned that the plans we had prepared from our budding architect referral "Mevelyn," we'll call her, were flawed. And flawed bad. "Sheer mathmatical errors," our GC said.

We encountered several issues during construction (click below for larger). Like when the electrician went drilling holes in the garage exterior "willy nilly" - picture unleveled holes drilled in the dark. Or when we learned Homer was the laughing stock of his contractor's breakfast when his group learned he didn't use a "glue lam" over the garage door for supporting the weight, compliments of the second floor. He later swallowed pride and redid the opening before word got out any further. My favorite was when the city shut down the project twice because there wasn't enough "head room" per city code to walk from the downstairs floor up the stairs without hitting your head.

It was apparent to us that our GC, Homer, was oblivious to city code and he pointed all issues back to the architect, or worse, to us.

In the end the project took over 5 months - almost twice what we were promised. It was like pushing water uphill, but we saw it through to the end. We prepared the final check and were excited the day our "release of lien" paperwork showed-up from the bank.

In retrospect, the lessons from this garage debacle are clear:

1) Know your GC. Make sure you thoroughly investigate your GC. Ask for references for projects similar to yours and talk to them. Remember that you're unlikely to be provided bad referrals by your GC, so probe for the issues you're most concerned about.

2) Get it in writing. Make sure and document the critical milestones in the project contract. If I could go back in time, I would have levied financial penalties to Homer (discounts to us) if the project took longer than 10-15% of what was quoted.

3) OBTK. This stands for "One Butt To Kick" and it means that someone at some point has to take accountability. Make sure you and the OBTK know who is who. In our case, Homer was our OBTK, but he thought he was the victim.

Oh, he has no idea!

Despite the experience, we are happy with our Taj Garage. To date we have not completely finished some of the work like window ledges, topping her subfloor upstairs or baseboards, but she's standing tall. She's termite free. And the house? He says they make a good couple.


* But where are the names!!? We want names!!!

Joe forbid me to reveal the true names of the folks involved on the great garage project of 2006. He was worried there'd be some sort of retaliation, let's call it. So names have been changed to protect the guilty. If you'd like more offline information about who not to use, ring me. If you live outside the East Dallas bubble, you're unlikely to cross paths with the clowns involved on our project.

Talk about victim!

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Marooned

With 16+ years experience in the advertising business, it baffles my mind how some seemingly legitimate companies can misrepresent and mislead customers while not getting sued or run out of business.

Looking back, it's like rearranging the chairs on the Titantic when thinking of all the time and energies I've spent in legal meetings combing through statements and claim support ensuring that the truth was upheld... only for other companies to bend the truth and get away with it.

The experience I just went through with Napa Style really takes the winds out of my truth in advertising sails.

Let's Go Back

Way back, to February, 2008.

Joe and I received the newest Napa Style catalog like we had many times before. We had been on the quest for a new kitchen island for a few months and there were several to choose from in the spring catalog.

This was a big-ticket purchase for us costing $1,700 so after a few conversations debating our worthiness to spend such an amount, we placed the order for the "Heirloom Carving Block Island" (shown above).

We couldn't wait for it to arrive. Or would we?

Shortly thereafter, we received an out-of-stock alert stating that Napa Style hates it when they, too, "wait for great items to come in the mail."

Looks like this order wasn't going to go off without a hitch.

Marooned. Without Island

The part of the story that holds no water is multi-fold.

1) Napa Style has been advertising the Heirloom Carving Block Island in every monthly catalog featuring a "tutto pronte" badge which means quite literally "ready to ship," when it in fact, it was not.

The island was backordered! Had Nappy not read their own emails? I get there are lead times for print catalogs but four months? If so, how can a company make such a timely claim with such a non-timely print lead time?

2) Nappy Style must have hired former J. Peterman writers to pen clever copy for their well-poised catalog.

After re-reading the copy numerous times, I'm still confused how the piece can in fact be coming from India when the copy mentions multiple times the country of France and that the piece is imported. From France? For real? Think twice!

3) When contacting customer service, they explained the reason for the backlog was that the nearby port in California was closed for a week. Didn't I get the 4-1-1? I guess they forgot that 4 months minus one week is, um, fifteen weeks without island.

4) I placed an online order in March for five items and guess what? All five were on backorder! I wrote to customer service and never heard back. Seems Nappy is well versed in taking and making money, but not in providing good customer service.

Mistruths In Advertising

It's up to us to hold companies responsible for standing up for our consumer rights when they go wrong as they sometimes do. But in the case of Napa Style, it's a nasty reminder of how prolonged poor customer service can deteriorate the human soul.

This post is my most recent in terms of the frequency and freshness of rage - we're supposedly on the eve of receiving the island tomorrow - almost one week after it's been sitting at a Dallas FedEx facility. When it's convenient for the delivery company, I'm sure it will arrive.

In the meantime we're unsubscribing from future mistreatment from Nappy Style. Arrivederci, Chiarello!

Tutto di Annullare

Curbed

Where Did It All Go Wrong?

So.

There we were in our new old house. It was a 1920's oldie, but a goodie (we hoped). From the outside looking in, it was a charmer. People would comment "oh, your house is so amazing." Then the stomach would grumble. "Amazing" is an understatement!

Time would prove that the house almost consumed us. Literally. Picture the Amityville Horror House literally ripping human heads off its visitors then flinging the headless bodies aside.

My recent post entitled "Down The Drain" mentioned a few of the home improvement projects. But to thoroughly understand the true spirit that is "Curbed," one must first understand the home improvement meteor storm that pelted the ego. The will to live. And ah, yes, the wallet.

Jumping In Head First

The house didn't seem so ominous. Sure it had been foreclosed on twice back-to-back. And it had sat empty for a year while paperwork was tied up by its owner - "the bank." After six months of searching for a bigger place to live, the email alert announcing the latest deal on the market arrived in my inbox and within a week, the find was ours.

We were able to look past the black cesspool in the backyard that was literally boarded up by the bank so there wasn't any risk associated with someone falling in and suing.

We looked past the ivy stalks as big around as a human arm that grew 30 feet up the pecan tree then cascaded down again toward the ground.

We looked past the garage that was missing its garage door remote, but featured a wall so rotten you could move it with the touch of the hand.

We looked past the empty hole in the kitchen where the oven was (it had been stolen by the previous Loan Defectors). I later learned the hole was not the home for an oven, but the palace for a "range," which costs about ten times that of its hickabilly cousin - the "oven." We later learned previous residents (a.k.a. the Clampetts) had their version of a range in the kitchen (a "range" also known as a B-B-Q grill). And for those of you who have been over for the nickel tour, you've undoubtedly heard the story of the replacement range project that literally consumed the profit from my last house and took four months of extreme project management skills due to the horrible situation bestowed upon me by the not so "Great Indoors."

We could look past it all. While we were visionaries, we weren't nelly belles. And we were ready to make this house a home.

Ding Dong

When you walked into the house, the eye was immediately drawn UP. To a ceiling where the texture was so thick, the only thing missing was glitter, a disco ball and some roller skates. I wouldn't have it.

The first check written was to literally scrape the ceilings flat again and it would set me back a few thousand American dollars. Where do I sign?

Wait. First Things First.

Before any work could be done, however, the house needed electricity. I was a TXU Energy customer at the time so I went online and submitted a "transfer of service request" to the new address.

After eleven days of no power and several emotionary phone calls with the electric giant, TXU told me that I would have to pay an expedite fee of $150 to get my power turned on. Turns out my service request was lost and even though I had a confirmation email as proof, they didn't care.

The ceiling scraper couldn't start work without electricity and there I was. Trapped. But with what seemed like enough rage to power a nation.

I love telling that story. Especially during an interview back in 2005 in the very halls of TXU where executives smiled at how easy it was to break their system. Despite the fact I was not a TXU customer any longer because of the wretched service, my made for Broadway reenactment got me the job offer. And scene!

One Fine Day

A cleverly-timed direct mail offer showed up mid-fiasco so rather than battle with my current company who couldn't give a rat's ass about my needs, I switched over to a new R.E.P. (that's Retail Electric Provider) called Reliant Energy.

It took over SIX MONTHS of constant follow-up, belly aching and even threats made to Reliant and the P.U.C. (the Public Utilities Commission, who was worthless) before the defiant electric company finally caved and granted my $50 "Welcome Bonus."

During the debacle I learned that "Defiant Energy" made offers to select meters (not customers) and since the offer was mailed to my old meter and I turned on service at my new meter, I was not eligible for the new meter welcome bonus. Go figure.

That's funny, I said to customer service lady. Your legal didn't disclose any of that secret information. Turns out I was the only one on the phone who had the direct mail letter and after much eloquent and fact-based old fashioned bitching, I finally was able to close the door on that chapter of this saga.

The $50 Was Mine. All Mine!

About a week later and the ceilings were done. No more lemon merange ceilings. No more urges to rollerskate to "the hustle."

I turned on the A/C for the first time and two days later noticed an ominous brown stain forming on the bedroom ceiling. I later was told that the "evaporator coil" in the attic was rusted, a leak sprung and my wet ceiling was rendered unsalvageable. So mere hours after moving into the bedroom, we promptly moved the bedroom into the living room and arranged for the ceiling scraper to remove crown molding and replace the entire sagging ceiling. Another $2,200 gone.

Then there was the check to replace the coil. Then repainting. The list went on and one.

So What's Up With The Curb?

In amongst the rubble going on inside, we shortly learned that outside, our curb was literally disappearing. The day I made the connection of where the curb was going, I almost lost [what's left of] my mind.

The Shitty of Dallas trash collection crew was literally eating our curb! Since humans don't pick up trash anymore - machines do - we literally saw the claw machine picking up our bulk trash. And front and center of the debris was a chunk of our curb. The non-curb hole had grown to about four feet in length and the only thing holding our yard together was a squashed piece of metal edging clinging on for dear life. The edging was put where the curb void now was by previous residents who probably ran screaming, arms in air, for the safety of the hills.

Several phone calls with the The Shitty later, and a case number was issued for further investigation. A few weeks later and The Shitty rendered it's decision. "Curbs are decorative," we were told. And they weren't going to replace it.

This Just In: Curbs Are Decorative!?!

Really! If that were the case, surely curbs would be more, um, decorative!?! Like glitter-covered curbs. Macaroni art-studded curbs. All lit-up-at-night curbs. Easter egg colored with fluffy bunny tail curbs. Christmas-time by the curb. WTF??

This attempt by The Shitty to brush us off made me laugh. Actually, I think it was a chortle. The Shitty had no idea who they were dealing with.

You see, to truly be a Consumer Victim, one must embrace the fact that they will be screwed over the simple things. Like The Shitty not replacing what they stole, right? Key for a Consumer Victim, however, is that she must also know how to dig-in and hunker down for one's rights. To be a bigger butt-head than the one on the other end of the phone.

I Am That Butt-head.

Literally a year had transpired. Patiently waiting for The Shitty to clean up their own mess. Joe called in one day and learned our case had been closed and nobody told us! Simply amazing. We resorted to notifying our district-woman and her office jumped-in and within two weeks, our replacement curb had been poured.

The Sweet, Sweet Smell Of Concrete

Some days I stand in front of the house and admire our "decorative curb." It reminds me how painful persistence can sometimes yield satisfying results. It also reminds me of how The Shitty, given the chance, will try and beat you into assimilated submission.

Little did I know the experiences with The Curb would undoubtedly pave the way for the much-needed intestinal fortitude needed to combat The Shitty after they repeatedly punched holes in our backyard fence - this time with alley garbage trucks.

But, oh, that's another Consumer Victim saga for another rainy day.

A Special Note To My House: If you are reading this, please know that we love you. We know you at least like us as we still have heads and are living. Please be good to us because if this keeps up, we will go broke and move out and The Clampetts may move back in. With their kitchen B-B-Q grill.

Loco For Mico

If you know anything about the places to see and be seen, you'll agree Mi Cocina makes the cut. Their food is my absolute favorite and I'm willing to endure the hoity vibe by the location nearest me in the high lands of Highland Park.

I shudder to know how much money I've given the Rodriquez family; my bills usually top $100 largely in part to the intoxicating margaritas that are about $9 a pop. And worth every penny.

I was a regular customer at the Galleria location for about five years. I'd meet-up with friends, get my drink on, then do some drunk shopping... Dallas-style! Now that I'm in my older years, I've segued from drunk shopping to drunk ONLINE shopping, where it's easier to order-up some things I don't need from the comfort of my armchair or floor.

One heckuva character there at the Galleria "Mico's" was a lady named Maxine. She knew me by name and when I was in her eyesight, she knew a "margarita on the rocks, no salt" was to be ordered rapidamente. Mico's wasn't a place where everybody knew my name, but it sorta felt that it was as close as I was gonna get.

Mesa Por Dos, Por Favor

One day back in 2005 Joe and I went there for a sensible lunch. Being the glam that I am, I actually wore my sunglasses into the mall to avoid anyone recognizing me and rushing me for my autograph.

During the meal I took my glasses off and set them on the table top. When we were done, we got up and made it about 20 steps from the table before I realized I had left my glasses. You see, without them, I'm a little Helen Keller.

In a matter of mere seconds, the busboy had already frantically disassembled the table and there I was: frantically trying to find my glasses.

They were nowhere to be found!

Que Horrible!

How could this be? I won't spare you the gory details so read the letter here at right for the full nitty gritty then report back to this post for the conclusion to my contusion.

Angry Letter Shown At Right: Not Actual Size. Click the letter's image to enlarge it for your viewing pleasure.


Did you finish reading the letter? Bueno!

I was surprised that a few weeks after sending my letter to Mico's Mothership, I received a gift card in the mail from them. The $100 gift card didn't come close to replacing my $600 spectacles, but it was some sort of peace offering. An attempt.

In the end, I had to reorder new glasses and swallow my pride. I couldn't stomach the thought of boycotting my favorite food source no matter how much rage I had within.

However, I still hold the grudge against the Galleria location and have not been back in over three years.

I narrowly dodged a near fatal break-up with my favorite restaurant but rest assured when I eat there, I don't take off my glasses!

MINI Madness

Strap yourself in!
It's gonna be a long, bumpy ride!

It was 2003 and I was about 6 months from my Accord's lease expiring. I was searching for another car - this time to buy - and a coworker suggested a MINI Cooper.

I had never heard of it.

A MINI Love Story

I ventured to John Roberts BMW (my closest MINI dealer) to test drive the hottest thing landing on American soil. I instantly fell in love with the sucker because it was, well, so different. Driving the car made me feel like a combination of Austin Powers meets Evil Knievel meets nurd-boy.

After extreme inner debates pouring over all the whistles and bells I wanted tricked-out on the artful car, I eagerly threw a 1,000 clams down to secure my order in advance. The MINI could be custom-built in 3 months, but I ponied-up 6 months in advance to allow enough time for the car to arrive to the U.S. and ultimately to Dallas soil.

MINI really has a great ad campaign and works to create a MINI Movement with their owners. I was hooked. In addition to a postal campaign, there was an online portal where I could sign-in and check the status of where my MINI was. Each day I'd routinely log-in and double check the remaining dates against the estimated arrival delivery date circled on my calendar.

Turns out I wasn't the only one eagerly awaiting the MINI arrival. My coworkers were all excited, too, and chomping at the bit to be one of the first to go for a spin in the new kid on the block. Ads, tchotchkies and emails all sporting MINI pin-ups began coming to me via coworkers further supporting the craze.

The MINI Has Landed

I was able to unload the Accord without a hitch - I sold it to a coworker in my company's accounting department who patiently waited for it and loved it as much as I loved my MINI to be. Finally the day arrived when I received the call: The MINI was in! Little did I know at the time, but this was where my fairy tale started to turn nightmare.

I thought I'd be able to pick up the car that night after waiting six months, right? Wrong. But they called me, right? Right, but wrong! My sales person said they would need FOUR DAYS to get the car ready because they had received a shipment of over 50 MINIs. WHO HOO FOR YOU! Regardless of the fact that I pre-ordered months in advance, I must have been promptly pushed back in "priority" by the dealership. "FIFO" meet "FILO" (First In Last Out).

On Day 4, I had handed-over my Accord and after work was dropped off at John Roberts to pick-up my new baby.

There he was: "The Silver Bullet," as I coined him. He only sported a little over a 100 horsepower but it wasn't the size of the motor that counted, but the motion in the ocean (or in this case, my ability to perform hair-pin turns literally on a dime).

My heart skipped every other beat for the first few minutes of being introduced to my mail-order groom there on the showroom floor. Just like a parent frantically inspecting their newborn baby's fingers and toes, I, too, was reviewing the personal particulars of this vehicle that would ensure it was the baddest boy on the road.

Make and model? Check!
Body Color? Check!

Roof Color? Check!

Aluminum alloy wheels? Check!
Black dimpled leather seats? Check!
Sunroof? Check!
Heated Seats and Mirrors? Check!
Premium Sound System?

Premium Sound System?

PREMIUM SOUND SYSTEM?

This story took a tragic turn for the worse. If we had been on a plane, this would be the point where the flight attendants jump out the window, rosaries are pulled-out, and the emergency oxygen cups drop from the ceiling.

My premium sound system was back in the motherland!

My salesperson was out that day so I had a sales "sub" who was quick to ask "Are you SURE you ordered premium sound?" I was like WTF? Do you honestly think I have waited all these months drooling and finger-tapping for my wheels to arrive and I might have forgotten what I ordered, I said!?! The sub went to the back and pulled my paperwork. "Yeah, you ordered it," he said.

So there I was. Standing before my premium soundless MINI. I threw out every option I could think of... starting with could they install the sound system here in Dallas? I was confidently assured "NO." They did offer me the bright idea of me taking the car to CAR TUNES to have them install a third-party sound system but I wouldn't have it. I wanted the Harman Kardon sound system with silver shark fin-shaped speaker grills. Not some HACK JOB done by a non-sanctioned MINI shop. Turns out, too, as I asked the magical question "Wouldn't this invalidate my electrical warranty" the answer was YES, so I clearly knew what I had to do.

I had to reject my MINI love. Be willing to abort mission. Pull out. Be without a car until we could settle up this fine mess.

The following day I spoke to my sales rep and asked what they could do about the situation. Turns out not much. They told me my options: 1) Take the car "as is" and they wouldn't charge me the extra $500 for the sound system (um, thanks, since it didn't have it?!?); 2) I could order another car and wait 3 months for it to arrive; or 3) Wait another 2-3 weeks and accept an alternate vehicle that the dealership pre-ordered.

I culled through a listing of the cars coming in and settled on one that was not an exact match, but close.

Things escalated to the head of Sales when I asked to be put in a loaner car for the 2-3 weeks until the car came in because my Accord was no longer mine. I was told that was not acceptable for the dealership. "Patrick, it's not our fault you sold your car early."

REALLY!?! Sold my car "early?" Clearly I was dealing with a mental midget head of sales who knew nothing of the facts. Or how to provide customer service in a time when they were the ones who had screwed-up, not me.

Let's recap: I gave a deposit in advance, waited 6 MONTHS and even waited 4 days for the dealership to pull their heads out "making ready" my car and this is the response I got? The icing on the cake was when they admitted to me that custom MINIs had shown-up before missing a few features here and there. It was beyond me why they didn't catch it before my butt was in the driver's seat.

Sadly, I realized the dealership couldn't give a rat's ass about my satisfaction so I offered a way out of the pain by asking for my money back and surprisingly, they gave it back! Sans six months interest, of course. Thanks a lot for your "service," John Robertsmutherf*kin' BMW!

From that moment forward that dealership was dead to me. If my powers were such, I would have summoned a giant pile of crap to implode the dealership bigger than the pile of crap they bestowed on me. So, as a mere mortal, I went out of my way to steer friends wanting a MINI to the Arlington dealership and a few months after my debacle, I was pleased to learn the dealership's namesake was no more.

What To Do... What To Do...

I sat alone in my house trying to come-up with a viable option. I had waited so long for the MINI to arrive that I decided I had to forge ahead. I'd find another MINI from another dealer - just not the one who abandoned their responsibility and left me high, dry and full of rage.

I made a list of have-to-haves and nice-to-haves and shared it with the next closest dealers in Arlington, San Antonio, Houston and Baton Rouge. The cars were selling like hot cakes so inventory was limited at the dealerships. A nice guy from Baton Rouge found the needle in the haystack: a silver/black number on a boat bound for the East Coast.

A $500 delivery fee later plus incremental $750 for a navigation system I didn't want but had to pay for in order to get the deal done and the car was mine. In a little over 2 weeks, the MINI was dropped off from a covered delivery truck at my front curb like a LUNAR LANDER. It was awesome!

Over the next 3 years, me and The Silver Bullet had the greatest of times. From flying over curbs to jetting in and out of traffic. It was a match made in heaven.

Until it came time for service.

The car wasn't a lemon but there were obvious production issues - "kinks" let's call them - that needed to be worked out. My nav system's software had to be re-installed, both door power window motors went out and one day the car actually turned off while I was in stop and go rush hour traffic. I was told that was "normal" because of a known micro chip issue. Um, OK!

I dealt with each blow over the three years and chocked-it up to my investment in being a MINI owner. What was hard to swallow, however, was every time I took the car to Moritz BMW in Arlington, I was reminded that I didn't buy the car from them and somehow the service I would receive would be less than the usual.

In June of '06 the motherload of screw-ups occurred when I took the MINI in for its 3 year check-up. I was told the dealership would put me in a rental (not a loan car, but a rental from the on-site National car rental). I was fine with that as I usually had to arrange my own pick-ups back to work.

What I wasn't fine with was that I made an appointment to drop The Bullet off a week in advance and after checking-in the car and waiting for the rental guy to show, I was told they were out of rental cars and I'd have to wait for who knows how long until they could find one somewhere else.

I explained I had made an appointment and I was told the rental outfit didn't take appointments - only the service area did - and it had been a busy day (keep in mind it was 8 am).

I had a 9 am meeting back in downtown Dallas so I unchecked my car from service. My service tech who appeared "surprised" at what happened told me to give him a few days and he'd make the situation right.

Two days later I received a phone call and was told they would drop-off a loaner car but to give them a few days to work my car's check-up into their schedule. Once again I bit my tongue (not an easy task for me) and exhaled.

Moritz had my car for ONE FULL WEEK for the routine service. Wow. In one week I could have flown in a balloon to London for crumpets and back but apparently the routine service was pretty complicated.

The day finally arrived when the car was ready and a porter was deployed for downtown so we could swap cars. There I was hanging out on the corner of Crack Whore Lane and Defecation Station waiting for the guy to show-up and finally he arrived.

I asked him if I needed to pay over the phone for the service (assuming they were going to charge me for this job) and he looked like a ghost who had just seen his own reflection. The porter sat there in my car staring back at me and I asked if he was going to keep my car until I paid. WTF?!?!

So two phone calls later and I was on the phone with a lady giving her my credit card info, which I had to fumble out of my wallet on the street corner. Not good, not good.

3 - 2 - 1... Blastoff!

By this point, my blood pressure had shot through the roof. I was more than ticked-off. I was hacked-off at the blatant ignorance. That day I realized I was far too old to drive a MINI and with no other service options in the D/FW metro area, the time had come for the MINI and I to split.

I set my eyes on a dealership that was close-by and 3 months later I was driving my new baby: a Lexus IS. To date our relationship has only been good. The only challenge is that I have a hard time pulling into my driveway because the car has a low profile and the Shitty of Dallas has concrete layered my street so many times if I don't invest about 30 seconds strategically pointing the car into the driveway just so, I'll rip-out my transmission. And my hair.

The MINI Saga is a good life lesson in the importance of choosing who and how you do business.

My purchase decision was initially compromised when John Roberts dropped the ball and refused to accept responsibility for their mistake. Insult to injury was topped-off by Moritz for the sub-standard service they dished for three years of what could have been a return customer for live situation.

For me, I should have known to buy the car from a local dealer and invest in a therapist and a big happy pill of patience.

MINI called me a few months later on a routine service follow-up and when I told them I didn't own the car any longer, that was that. There were no questions as to why I lost my marbles by defecting from the MINI Union. I was now dead to them.

Sidebar: I wondered how my original order was screwed-up and I think I solved that conundrum. The order was hand-written on an order form and signed by me and the sales person. I can only guess that at some point it was keyed-into an electronic ordering system and someone might have engaged in coffee talk, taken a bathroom break or had a slight seizure in the middle of keying my order.

In hindsight, I should have asked for an electronic print-out of the order. Had I done so, I would have been able to figure out earlier that a (John Roberts BMW) + b (Moritz BMW) = me getting screwed.