This week I'm taking a bit of a spring break hiatus from the blog and I'll be featuring some of my more popular posts from years past, like this one from June 2008. Hope you'll enjoy revisiting some of these memories as much as I did!
Last July, we purchased two trees from a landscaping company which they planted in our backyard. Fast forward to this May, and both trees are dead. But since they came with a one-year warranty, I called the company to come replace the trees. They set up an appointment for a few days later, giving me that oh-so-convenient three-hour time frame to be here. And yes, they failed to show up.
A few days go by, and I call again to remind them that my trees were dead and hey, thanks for wasting three hours of my day. Appreciate it. They assured me they would come out the next day with new trees. Once again, the time frame elapsed with no landscapers making an appearance. I am starting to lose my cool when I call their office, struggling to effectively communicate that I HAVE DEAD TREES. AND I NEED YOU TO FIX THAT. I get some lame excuse about how they are just swamped but yes, they can come out on Saturday with new trees. So, sucker that I am, I set up the appointment AGAIN, adding a request that could they please call me if they can't make it? Because I am really needy and might start to develop a slight complex if you stand me up again?
You know what happened, right? No landscapers. No phone call. My trees are still dead and I am PISSED. And a bit paranoid that, perhaps, I am on some sort of hidden camera show determined to see how far they can push me before I go batshit crazy. So I call their office yet again. And request that rather than replacing my trees they can just refund my money. To the tune of $400. I am assured that they will deliver my request to the manager. I mistakenly assume that he will make my problem his top priority.
Naturally, the manager never calls me back. And he apparently alerts his receptionist that if Lisa Dickinson calls, don't put her crazy ass through. Straight to voice mail, please. So I leave messages. Lots of them. And then I try to get his cell number so I can leave messages there, too. Of course, the receptionist has also been instructed to keep that number private, which might have been an effective tactic if it wasn't posted on their flippin' website. Idiots. At this point, I am pretty convinced that I will not be getting replacement trees nor my $400, so I figure annoying the hell out of this guy with an inundation of voice mail would be my next best option. I begin calling his cell every hour, on the hour, leaving increasingly deranged messages about my trees and wanting my money back. On the second day, I dispense with the pleasantries and just scream "$400 DOLLARS! I WANT MY $400 DOLLARS!" after the beep. Surprisingly, this proves to be very therapeutic as I end up laughing hysterically every time I hang up.
Admittedly, I know that this was not a very mature way of handling the situation. But ultimately it did result in me getting new trees. Last Saturday, a landscaper's truck showed up at our house with two lovely new (alive!) trees. And tied to the top of one of them was a piece of white cloth. Coincidence? I think not.
I'd be remiss without crediting my inspiration in this whole saga: the paper boy in Better Off Dead:
Because whether it's two dollars or four hundred dollars, nobody likes to be ripped off.
