Parts Manager Update
If you've been following the saga of my washing machine repairs, you may remember that the last episode had a cliff-hanger ending. How soon would G.E. arrange for pickup? Would their system accurately inform the trucking company that they had to retrieve the large box of used parts from my laundry room? Would the trucker just drive away when the box wasn't outside? And how long would it take until someone even tried to retrieve it?
The Box!
With these questions in mind, I called uber-customer-service number on Monday. I did not get Vickie, and the person I got was not as helpful as she was. In fact, this woman had a bit of an attitude. I had my case number, so I didn't really have to get her up to speed so she knew Vickie had left me a message saying I'd hear from her on Tuesday. I knew that. I explained that I want to get my house on the market next week and that the box had to GO in time to allow me to clean the laundry area. To be told on Tuesday that the box would be picked up on, say, Friday wasn't working for me. I also played the Old Age card, hard, and explained that I am 80 and unable to get that box up a flight of six stairs by myself. However, I would hire someone to do it if G.E. would reimburse me.
No, not-Vickie would not even consider that. She repeated that the department that arranges pickup would call the uber-customer-service department the next day and set up a pick up date. I replied that that time table didn't work for me. Not-Vickie told me again that I had to wait until tomorrow (Tuesday). I asked to speak to her supervisor. Not-Vickie told me there was no such person. I said, "You are the supervisor?" She didn't answer. I said, in a voice that I hoped promised doom and destruction, that I would call first thing the next morning and expect answers.
Gentle reader, I am so not a morning person. When my feet hit the floor, my eyes do not pop open, and I do not immediately charge out to conquer the world. So on Tuesday, I got up as usual at the crack of dawn (9:00 a.m.), then bumbled around the second floor getting dressed for almost an hour. So it was while I was making my breakfast (coffee, oatmeal with blueberries, and a tangerine) that Vickie called me. FedEx, she said, would be there today, Tuesday, but if they couldn't move the box to their truck, arrangements would be made as quickly as possible to get a trucking company to me.
The doorbell clanged at around 2:00 p.m. and sure enough, there was a FedEx man. He looked quite disgruntled when he saw the size of my box, but I told him I would help get it up the steps. He muttered something that sounded like, "You better," to me, and I did.
He pulled and I pushed and we managed to ram it up past the railing and then through the door. As I told him, "It doesn't matter if we bash the box a bit or even somehow damage its contents," to which he grunted. This time I did manage to have tip money in the house; he growled, "Thanks."
I think that my stern tone on the phone did motivate not-Vickie to arrange the FedEx pickup, or at least to warn real-Vickie that I was quite unhappy. Believe me, I was happy, happy, happy to see The Box go down the block and into the FedEx truck. FanSee
The Box!
With these questions in mind, I called uber-customer-service number on Monday. I did not get Vickie, and the person I got was not as helpful as she was. In fact, this woman had a bit of an attitude. I had my case number, so I didn't really have to get her up to speed so she knew Vickie had left me a message saying I'd hear from her on Tuesday. I knew that. I explained that I want to get my house on the market next week and that the box had to GO in time to allow me to clean the laundry area. To be told on Tuesday that the box would be picked up on, say, Friday wasn't working for me. I also played the Old Age card, hard, and explained that I am 80 and unable to get that box up a flight of six stairs by myself. However, I would hire someone to do it if G.E. would reimburse me.
No, not-Vickie would not even consider that. She repeated that the department that arranges pickup would call the uber-customer-service department the next day and set up a pick up date. I replied that that time table didn't work for me. Not-Vickie told me again that I had to wait until tomorrow (Tuesday). I asked to speak to her supervisor. Not-Vickie told me there was no such person. I said, "You are the supervisor?" She didn't answer. I said, in a voice that I hoped promised doom and destruction, that I would call first thing the next morning and expect answers.
Gentle reader, I am so not a morning person. When my feet hit the floor, my eyes do not pop open, and I do not immediately charge out to conquer the world. So on Tuesday, I got up as usual at the crack of dawn (9:00 a.m.), then bumbled around the second floor getting dressed for almost an hour. So it was while I was making my breakfast (coffee, oatmeal with blueberries, and a tangerine) that Vickie called me. FedEx, she said, would be there today, Tuesday, but if they couldn't move the box to their truck, arrangements would be made as quickly as possible to get a trucking company to me.
The doorbell clanged at around 2:00 p.m. and sure enough, there was a FedEx man. He looked quite disgruntled when he saw the size of my box, but I told him I would help get it up the steps. He muttered something that sounded like, "You better," to me, and I did.
He pulled and I pushed and we managed to ram it up past the railing and then through the door. As I told him, "It doesn't matter if we bash the box a bit or even somehow damage its contents," to which he grunted. This time I did manage to have tip money in the house; he growled, "Thanks."
I think that my stern tone on the phone did motivate not-Vickie to arrange the FedEx pickup, or at least to warn real-Vickie that I was quite unhappy. Believe me, I was happy, happy, happy to see The Box go down the block and into the FedEx truck. FanSee