I wrote my first complaint letter yesterday. *smug look on my face*
I have always made fun of my mom for doing it. Angrily typing away at these Dear-Company-your-product-totally-sucks-Sincerely-xoxo-Unhappy-in-Syracuse notes. What’s more, the lady uses only her index finger to type. It looks like she’s pressing her knobby talon right into the chest of the customer service guy she’s addressing each time she pokes a different key.
Honest Moment: For the first 20 or so years of my life, I typed the same way. It wasn’t until I was typing every single day, all day every day, that I started to employ all of my digits. This made my index finger REALLY pissed. Suicidal at times. No more star of the show. No more fancy dressing room just for you. Share with your brother and sister fingers.
When it comes to online customer service representatives, my mom excels at slicing off a piece of her freshly baked I’m not mad, I’m disappointed motherly touch. The one that most effectively delivers that sharp bee sting, kick to the gut, overwhelming sensation of guilt. I will master that. I just need practice. My son is only one and has been a really good baby so this will be a relatively new skill* for me to add to my ammo once/if he hits the Terrible Twos.
*I say relatively new skill because my husband would beg to differ. He would say I’m no stranger to slathering on a thick layer of guilt and that I’d require zero practice in addition to the years of it that I’ve had with him as my guinea pig. Love you, Timmy. Now make sure you’re home before Kellan’s bed time if you want him to remember who you are at all.
So. Speaking of my son. The product I mouthed off about? His baby monitor. The thing turns off on its own in the middle of the night. The video screen freezes so it looks like Kellan is still in his crib long after I’ve taken him out. The picture is hazy half the time, even showing light precipitation in his room and/or dancing orbs of light. It’s a horror movie in the making.
And we’re not shooting Paranormal 5 in my house. I’m sorry, we’re just not. Sure, we could use the extra money, but this is not the answer. Someone can call Oren Peli and tell him he’ll have to scout a new location for his next sequel. Oren. That’s a super cool name. Wish we could save it for future offspring but Oren Killoran just ain’t gonna fly with me. Not for Neil Bedling’s next-of-kin.
Anyway. Despite the mockery I may or may not be convicted of with my mom’s complaint letter writing, I have to admit, after hammering away at my first one and clicking Send, damn, it feels good. There’s something about the Airing of the Grievances (Seinfeld’s celebration of Festivus) that just feels right. I think it’s simple. We humans like to bitch. We eat it up just to spit it back out. It’s part of our nature. We’re all sorts of effed up, we humans. But that’s another whole post topic.
I’ll be sure to let you know if my griping, groaning and grumbling were at all effective with the monitor company. The dumb thing put one of my lovely lady friends out nearly $200 so it better damn work. And not scare the bejesus out of me every freaking night. (I got it as a baby shower gift. Maybe it’s my fault for registering for a shitty model? Registering for baby shower items is REALLY overwhelming if you’ve never done it. SO GET OFF MY BACK. *curtsy* Sorry. Hormones. Back to being lady-like.)