I used to be of average intelligence. I could do simple math, function independently and follow instructions for setting up the toaster oven my parents got in 1970 for opening up a savings account.
I'm no longer average. I've either become an imbecile or everyone else has become a genius. How do they know how to tweet? How do they know how to download...or is it upload... a podcast? How do they know how to find useful apps? How do they know what apps are? How do they get their cameras out of video mode? If they can take still photos, how do they get them from the camera into a wallet? I could go on and on with more questions, but you get the idea. The twenty first century has left me in the dust.
Can it be that everyone born subsequent to 1975 has a genetic mutation that enables them to intuit the workings of all new technology? Or is it that they read the manuals? Either way, I'm screwed. I'm too old for the mutation and too terrified to read the manuals. If I were to read the manual and still couldn't work the device, I would be certifiably stupid. If I don't read the manual, I can convince myself that if only I had read it, I would be able to punctuate a text message.
I have never been in the vanguard of adopting new technology. But, there is some technology I couldn't embrace quickly enough. Cash machines, for example. The motivation was twofold-being able to get cash on weekends and never again having to wait for the teller to count out the 702 singles for the blind person in front of me cashing her social security check. It was also love at first sight for cordless phones. I could actually pick up a call in the living room, continue it while paying my bills in the den and conclude it several hours later having finished a master's thesis. A few well placed "aha's" and the caller was convinced of my undivided attention. Recently, I received a Nook,Barnes and Noble's e-reader, as a gift, and I'm in love with it. Sure I would not be able to work it, I waited three weeks to take it out of the box. Knowing the manual would intimidate me, I went to Barnes and Noble and played dumb--not a stretch- and told the salesperson I had no idea how to get a book onto it or to read it, should I manage to get a book onto it. Experienced in dealing with the slow, she showed me how do magically download a book and read it. I take it everywhere, as much because it makes me feel like a techie as because it alleviates the need to carry around the 900 page Pillars of the Earth.
If I am to make even the feeblest attempt to use new technology, history shows I need sufficient motivation. Before going to Spain last spring, I bought my first digital camera. Unfortunately, somehow, prior to the first shot, it went on video mode and I came home with 120 videos,55 of flamenco dancing which is not one of my favorite dance forms, and the remaining videos of the inside of my tote bag. I shelved the camera permanently. In J&R, while I was buying a camera as a gift, a customer asked the salesman if the camera had a setting for "beauty." Curious, I asked what the setting did and the customer said,"it removes wrinkles and gives you a flawless complexion. I'll show you." She took my picture. I had been given a fabulous, painless face lift. Had I been dressed appropriately and been 9" taller I would have hightailed it to Ford Modeling.
I am now determined to find where I stashed the camera, figure out how to charge it and look for"beauty." It would have remained shelved, if like ordinary cameras, it showed you "truth." Who in her right mind wants truth in a camera. For "beauty," I'll read the manual.
Wishing you all health, wealth, happiness and beauty in the new year.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Dieting May Be Hazardous To Your Health
Over my lifetime I have shed 327 pounds. Diets tell you to visualize weight. 8 pounds is a newborn. 15 pounds is a 15 year old cell phone. 327 pounds is a male warthog. You've seen me, so you're probably searching the internet, muttering," I gotta find the spanx she's been wearing." Stop searching. I never weighed over 400 pounds. I never weighed over 115 pounds. Nevertheless, I've been on one diet or another for 40 years. The 327 pounds is the weight cumulatively lost by dieting. For those of you who just squeaked by calculus, let me explain that the total would not have reached 327 pounds had I kept the weight off after each regimen. Instead, I'd lose 5 pounds on the diet and gain it back as soon as I resumed eating something other than grass.
I will not bore you with the details of my teenage infatuation with amphetamines as a diet aid, other than to tell you that they were equally effective at suppressing my appetite and giving me a borderline personality disorder. Nor will I disgust you with the side effects of the diet requiring me to consume eight bowls a day of cabbage and tomatoes. Of the Atkins diet, I have only praise. I was permitted cheeseburgers, bacon, eggs and unlimited vodka. I was sated and plastered for the three weeks I was on it. Unfortunately,as a result of Atkins, I gained six pounds and was forced to go on Zocor.
I've read that fad diets are dangerous, omitting necessary nutrients, electrolytes and often, actual food. Weight Watchers, the health pundits opine, is the only safe effective "weight loss program." I tried it last year, lost weight, reached my goal and consequently became a "lifetime member," entitling me to free meetings and more important, free weigh-ins. If you have never dieted, you may not recognize the value of being weighed in by a stranger on an impartial scale.
Here's how I ordinarily weigh myself. Making sure my hair is dry so as not to add ounces, naked, I mount the scale. I look down. If the number looks good, I get off the scale and eat a donut. If the number looks bad, I move the scale a few feet to the left and step on it again. If the number is still bad, I move the scale again, repeating the process until I get a number closer to what I want. At Weight Watchers, you step on the scale. Your weight is visible to the person weighing you in, but NOT to you. You have no opportunity or reason to cheat.
A condition of maintaining lifetime membership is weighing in once a month and staying within two pounds of your goal weight. Last Saturday, I decided to report for my December weigh in at a walk-in weight watcher's location on 19th Street. The door to the office building was locked, but someone leaving the premises let me in. I took the elevator to three and found the door to the weight watcher's premises locked. I was disappointed and surprised since I thought this location was open 24/7 for lifers like me who might feel an irresistible urge to be weighed. I went downstairs. The buildings door was locked. A label beneath a green button on the side of the door read,"push to exit." I pushed the button and pushed the door. The door did not budge. I pushed the button and pulled the door. The door did not budge. I repeated this exercise 13 times, hoping fervently that I had been pushing and pulling incorrectly the previous times.
The building appeared deserted. I was locked in the lobby of 59 West 19th Street with no way out. I was the man trapped in an elevator over a weekend. Like him, I would not be found until office workers arrived Monday. Having eaten only a tiny bowl of Fiber One on Saturday morning,I might die of starvation. Worse yet, why had I picked this day to have a high fiber cereal and a large cup of coffee. I started to hyperventilate. Then I remembered my cell phone. 911. I called, embarrassed. I started to tell the operator my story...weight watchers, lifetime, weigh-in, fiber one, yada yada. She put me on hold. HOLD! I waited patiently, thinking,"Okay, my predicament may not rise to the level of a fire or armed robbery, but was she allowed to put me on hold?"
As I was musing, my savior arrived. A woman came out of the elevator, saw me and said,"Press the green button and push the door simultaneously. I know, because it's happened to me too."
Tasting freedom for the first time in a quarter hour, I skipped down 6th Avenue to the bathroom at Bed Bath and Beyond. I exuberantly peed. Then, I raced to Ray's Pizza on 11th and 6th, where I got two slices, with pepperoni. While adding the hot pepper, I thought," The pundits are wrong. Based on experience, Weight Watchers is the most dangerous diet of all."
I will not bore you with the details of my teenage infatuation with amphetamines as a diet aid, other than to tell you that they were equally effective at suppressing my appetite and giving me a borderline personality disorder. Nor will I disgust you with the side effects of the diet requiring me to consume eight bowls a day of cabbage and tomatoes. Of the Atkins diet, I have only praise. I was permitted cheeseburgers, bacon, eggs and unlimited vodka. I was sated and plastered for the three weeks I was on it. Unfortunately,as a result of Atkins, I gained six pounds and was forced to go on Zocor.
I've read that fad diets are dangerous, omitting necessary nutrients, electrolytes and often, actual food. Weight Watchers, the health pundits opine, is the only safe effective "weight loss program." I tried it last year, lost weight, reached my goal and consequently became a "lifetime member," entitling me to free meetings and more important, free weigh-ins. If you have never dieted, you may not recognize the value of being weighed in by a stranger on an impartial scale.
Here's how I ordinarily weigh myself. Making sure my hair is dry so as not to add ounces, naked, I mount the scale. I look down. If the number looks good, I get off the scale and eat a donut. If the number looks bad, I move the scale a few feet to the left and step on it again. If the number is still bad, I move the scale again, repeating the process until I get a number closer to what I want. At Weight Watchers, you step on the scale. Your weight is visible to the person weighing you in, but NOT to you. You have no opportunity or reason to cheat.
A condition of maintaining lifetime membership is weighing in once a month and staying within two pounds of your goal weight. Last Saturday, I decided to report for my December weigh in at a walk-in weight watcher's location on 19th Street. The door to the office building was locked, but someone leaving the premises let me in. I took the elevator to three and found the door to the weight watcher's premises locked. I was disappointed and surprised since I thought this location was open 24/7 for lifers like me who might feel an irresistible urge to be weighed. I went downstairs. The buildings door was locked. A label beneath a green button on the side of the door read,"push to exit." I pushed the button and pushed the door. The door did not budge. I pushed the button and pulled the door. The door did not budge. I repeated this exercise 13 times, hoping fervently that I had been pushing and pulling incorrectly the previous times.
The building appeared deserted. I was locked in the lobby of 59 West 19th Street with no way out. I was the man trapped in an elevator over a weekend. Like him, I would not be found until office workers arrived Monday. Having eaten only a tiny bowl of Fiber One on Saturday morning,I might die of starvation. Worse yet, why had I picked this day to have a high fiber cereal and a large cup of coffee. I started to hyperventilate. Then I remembered my cell phone. 911. I called, embarrassed. I started to tell the operator my story...weight watchers, lifetime, weigh-in, fiber one, yada yada. She put me on hold. HOLD! I waited patiently, thinking,"Okay, my predicament may not rise to the level of a fire or armed robbery, but was she allowed to put me on hold?"
As I was musing, my savior arrived. A woman came out of the elevator, saw me and said,"Press the green button and push the door simultaneously. I know, because it's happened to me too."
Tasting freedom for the first time in a quarter hour, I skipped down 6th Avenue to the bathroom at Bed Bath and Beyond. I exuberantly peed. Then, I raced to Ray's Pizza on 11th and 6th, where I got two slices, with pepperoni. While adding the hot pepper, I thought," The pundits are wrong. Based on experience, Weight Watchers is the most dangerous diet of all."
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Bellevue to Barcelona and Istanbul for good measure
Despite my robust health and that of my friends, I have recently sampled, both personally and vicariously, medical treatment from Bellevue to Barcelona to Istanbul. For those of you who think we have the best medical care in the world, there's a used treadmill I'd be happy to sell you.
When my cousin Kenneth tripped on a tree pit on West 12th Street on the way to my passover seder , landing on his nose which consequently took a sharp upward left turn toward his ear, he hightailed it to Bellevue. He would miss the first two glasses of Manischewitz and a rousing chorus of "Dayenu," but we were all confident that when he was discharged, his nose would be front and center. Four hours later, just as Elijah was about to partake in the heavy malaga, Kenneth arrived, nose askew. "After waiting for three and 1/2 hours in a room perfumed by the stench of several homeless men, they examined me and advised me to see a plastic surgeon." Kenneth's nose still veers left.
Several years ago, while throwing out the garbage after an evening of too many mojitos , I tripped over the carpet or the cat or my untied reeboks and broke my fall with my right wrist. By morning, the pain in my wrist was excruciating and my hand was the size of a hedgehog. I went to Urgent Care at Hospital for Joint Diseases. I waited for 2 hours. "Are you pregnant?" an x-ray technician inquired. "Are you kidding?" I responded. They x-rayed me. I had no fracture and they consequently discharged me, untreated, the hedgehog as painful and large as when I had arrived. I couldn't get an appointment with an orthopedist for a week. When I was finally able to see one,his office was mobbed. I was provided with a clipboard topped with forms on which I was to detail my medical history. I handed back the filled out forms and was summoned two hours later. A physician's assistant then asked me for the identical information I had just provided on the forms. He exited and the orthopedist entered, asking me my medical history yet again. I presume medical offices have patients fill out medical history forms to distract the patients from the inordinately long wait. I would be happier with chopped liver on crackers. The doctor re-xrayed me, informed me I still had no fracture, gave me a splint and sent me for 8 weeks of physical therapy.
In May I was in Barcelona with my friend, Marilyn. We had just had dinner in a trendy restaurant, imbibed a fair amount of cava, and, my mind elsewhere, (perhaps on the fact that the check was double what it should have been)I tripped on something--no se que-and this time, for variety, broke my fall with my left hand. The next morning I was in agony and asked the concierge to call the hotel doctor. Within 20 minutes, Dr. Luca, a soap opera handsome, 32 year old English speaking doctor showed up. He palpated my arm. "Hurt here?" "Hurt here?" "No? Good, I don't think it's broken." Experienced, I tentatively asked if he had a splint. "No, but I'm from Colombia, a third world country. We know how to improvise." With rolls of gauze and two tongue depressors, he made an effective makeshift splint. A week later, my wrist was fine. No useless forms. No x-rays. No physical therapy. Perhaps my recovery was also abetted by the anti- inflammatory shot he insisted on giving me in the behind. It may not have helped my hand, but it certainly raised my spirits.
On to Istanbul. Two days before our departure for NYC, CB developed a purple polka dot rash on her inner arm. The day before we were to leave, the rash spread. Neither of us thought it posed an immediate threat, but the possibility that her funeral might have to take place in a mosque and the fear that she might not enjoy the 75% off sales occurring all over the city, were sufficient to propel us to the American Hospital in Istanbul. We were told the German Hospital was equally good, but for historic reasons there was no way in hell we were going there.
We were greeted by a receptionist who, when shown the rash, pointed us toward "dermatology." After a 3 minute wait, an attractive English speaking doctor ushered us into her office. She asked CB what drugs she was taking, looked at the rash and pronounced baby aspirin the culprit. CB looked dubious so the doctor said,"I could do a bunch of expensive tests, but I'm telling you, it's baby aspirin." CB forwent the tests and, elated that death was not imminent, bought two gorgeous dresses at 75% off. I, ecstatic that I would not have to attend her funeral, supplemented my collection of 41 tote bags with two more fabulous ones, also at 75% off. Following the doctor's directions, she stopped the baby aspirin and the rash disappeared. No forms. No tests. Just an intelligent diagnosis made by a skilled practitioner.
I am aware that people from all over the world come to the U.S. for our state of the art medical treatment. Fortunately for them, our doctors speak Spanish,Turkish, Hindi, Russian and many other languages. Many also speak English, but they are not on my health plan. So, if I ever need one stop medical treatment from an anglophone doctor, I will take a non stop flight to Barcelona or Istanbul. I'll be treated and cured before my primary care physician can write out the eight essential referrals.
When my cousin Kenneth tripped on a tree pit on West 12th Street on the way to my passover seder , landing on his nose which consequently took a sharp upward left turn toward his ear, he hightailed it to Bellevue. He would miss the first two glasses of Manischewitz and a rousing chorus of "Dayenu," but we were all confident that when he was discharged, his nose would be front and center. Four hours later, just as Elijah was about to partake in the heavy malaga, Kenneth arrived, nose askew. "After waiting for three and 1/2 hours in a room perfumed by the stench of several homeless men, they examined me and advised me to see a plastic surgeon." Kenneth's nose still veers left.
Several years ago, while throwing out the garbage after an evening of too many mojitos , I tripped over the carpet or the cat or my untied reeboks and broke my fall with my right wrist. By morning, the pain in my wrist was excruciating and my hand was the size of a hedgehog. I went to Urgent Care at Hospital for Joint Diseases. I waited for 2 hours. "Are you pregnant?" an x-ray technician inquired. "Are you kidding?" I responded. They x-rayed me. I had no fracture and they consequently discharged me, untreated, the hedgehog as painful and large as when I had arrived. I couldn't get an appointment with an orthopedist for a week. When I was finally able to see one,his office was mobbed. I was provided with a clipboard topped with forms on which I was to detail my medical history. I handed back the filled out forms and was summoned two hours later. A physician's assistant then asked me for the identical information I had just provided on the forms. He exited and the orthopedist entered, asking me my medical history yet again. I presume medical offices have patients fill out medical history forms to distract the patients from the inordinately long wait. I would be happier with chopped liver on crackers. The doctor re-xrayed me, informed me I still had no fracture, gave me a splint and sent me for 8 weeks of physical therapy.
In May I was in Barcelona with my friend, Marilyn. We had just had dinner in a trendy restaurant, imbibed a fair amount of cava, and, my mind elsewhere, (perhaps on the fact that the check was double what it should have been)I tripped on something--no se que-and this time, for variety, broke my fall with my left hand. The next morning I was in agony and asked the concierge to call the hotel doctor. Within 20 minutes, Dr. Luca, a soap opera handsome, 32 year old English speaking doctor showed up. He palpated my arm. "Hurt here?" "Hurt here?" "No? Good, I don't think it's broken." Experienced, I tentatively asked if he had a splint. "No, but I'm from Colombia, a third world country. We know how to improvise." With rolls of gauze and two tongue depressors, he made an effective makeshift splint. A week later, my wrist was fine. No useless forms. No x-rays. No physical therapy. Perhaps my recovery was also abetted by the anti- inflammatory shot he insisted on giving me in the behind. It may not have helped my hand, but it certainly raised my spirits.
On to Istanbul. Two days before our departure for NYC, CB developed a purple polka dot rash on her inner arm. The day before we were to leave, the rash spread. Neither of us thought it posed an immediate threat, but the possibility that her funeral might have to take place in a mosque and the fear that she might not enjoy the 75% off sales occurring all over the city, were sufficient to propel us to the American Hospital in Istanbul. We were told the German Hospital was equally good, but for historic reasons there was no way in hell we were going there.
We were greeted by a receptionist who, when shown the rash, pointed us toward "dermatology." After a 3 minute wait, an attractive English speaking doctor ushered us into her office. She asked CB what drugs she was taking, looked at the rash and pronounced baby aspirin the culprit. CB looked dubious so the doctor said,"I could do a bunch of expensive tests, but I'm telling you, it's baby aspirin." CB forwent the tests and, elated that death was not imminent, bought two gorgeous dresses at 75% off. I, ecstatic that I would not have to attend her funeral, supplemented my collection of 41 tote bags with two more fabulous ones, also at 75% off. Following the doctor's directions, she stopped the baby aspirin and the rash disappeared. No forms. No tests. Just an intelligent diagnosis made by a skilled practitioner.
I am aware that people from all over the world come to the U.S. for our state of the art medical treatment. Fortunately for them, our doctors speak Spanish,Turkish, Hindi, Russian and many other languages. Many also speak English, but they are not on my health plan. So, if I ever need one stop medical treatment from an anglophone doctor, I will take a non stop flight to Barcelona or Istanbul. I'll be treated and cured before my primary care physician can write out the eight essential referrals.
Inquiring minds want to know
Having relegated me to treadmill hell, Sears, after receiving my small claims complaint for breach of warranty, transported me to heaven by settling with me. I know you're dying to know what they gave me, and I would love to tell you, but I can't. Sears, apparently believing the settlement with me might depress their stock price, required me to sign a confidentiality agreement. I cannot disclose whether they gave me money. I can divulge that subsequent to the settlement, I bought a new treadmill from Sports Authority. It has no visible damage, moves at the speed I select and I can hear Ann Curry over its motor. I hope never to write a blog about treadmills again. And yes, I kept the box.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Dear DeWayne Letter
DeWayne Hodgett
Blue Ribbon Services
Sears Holding Company
3333 Beverly Road
Hoffman Estates, Illinois 60179
Personal and Confidential
Dear DeWayne,
I know you meant well when you invited me to be your facebook friend. You wanted me to experience a different side of DeWayne. The DeWayne with 9,762 friends. The DeWayne who helps out at the soup kitchen. The DeWayne doing the perp walk.
But, DeWayne, I thought I was more to you than a facebook friend.
Our first encounter-nearly 3 months ago-- was brief, one sided and memorable only in retrospect as the beginning of a relationship. You left me a message saying that you were assigned to my case no. 3149639 and would call me in two days. True to your word, you called. I acknowledge I may not have been my best self in our conversation. I may have grumbled that for three months I had been living in a treadmill junkyard thanks to Sears. I may have complained about the limp I developed after I stubbed my toe on the 2nd broken Sole Fitness treadmill. I may have said,"there's not a snowball's chance in hell I will let a Sears treadmill into my house." I do know that I asked you for $2500 so I could get a new treadmill elsewhere. Unflappable, you told me you'd get back to me.
With uncanny sensitivity to my schedule, you called me every other day when I wasn't home, leaving me a message on land-line that you were sorry you missed me and that you would call in two days. I received that same message every other day for a month. In response to each message, I called you back, telling you I was sorry I missed your call and leaving you my cell phone number. You managed to leave me a message on cell every time I was on the subway.
I admit being mystified that your message was never more substantive than, "I'll call you in two days," but on August 16 when you did reach me, your reason became evident.
Only a sociopath would tell you your dog died by leaving you a message. A good person would cushion the blow with a little banter before the bad news. On August 16, you called, asked after my vacation and told me my dog died--metaphorically of course, as I don't have dog. Sears would not give me $2500. What could they do for me?
DeWayne, at that moment, perhaps because your tone was so beseeching, perhaps because the regularity of your calls enabled me to remember whether it was Monday or Wednesday, perhaps because I killed too many brain cells with $3 Trader Joe's Chardonnay, I lost my mind to you. "Okay," I said,"I'll give Sears one more chance. If you can deliver, set up and take out the broken treadmill in one visit, I'll go for it." You said you'd get back to me in two days.
For two more weeks, I received alternate day messages from you on my cell phone. I steeled myself for my dog's death. But, instead, on August 30, you gave me a birthday present. Just as you intuited my schedule, you intuited my birthday. "Pick out any treadmill on the Sears website and it's yours." Upping our intimacy level, we exchanged e-mail addresses.
I'm used to great birthday presents-- Tiffany necklaces, Broadway shows, chopped liver and kasha knish from the Second Avenue Deli-but a treadmill trumps them all. I was certain we had something special going.
I picked out a doozy, the Proform XP 580 Trainer Treadmill, checked its reviews, found out its dimensions and e-mailed you. When you left me a message two days later that you'd call me in two days, I could not and would not believe you had news of a dead canine. I was still on cloud nine, fantasizing running on my new ProForm 580, eliminating the six pounds I had gained since Sears terminated my exercise regimen.
When you began our phone call on September 7, with "How was your weekend?" I knew Fido was in his casket. "The Proform XP 580 is not available." "But DeWayne," I whined, "it's available on the Sears website."
You explained that it was not in a warehouse in my area and graciously invited me to pick out another one...any other one...and it would be mine.
I've picked out three more, none of which are available in my area. You maintain your graciousness in the face of my disappointment, urging me to keep selecting, but the only treadmills remaining cost $75 and are suitable for use by Fred and Wilma Flintstone.
DeWayne, I admit I'm inexperienced in matters of the heart. You led me down the primrose path with your reliability, generosity and empathy. I believed I was more than just one out of 9,762. DeWayne,with me it's all or nothing. If I cannot be your BFF, I will not be your "friend" at all. I nevertheless look forward to our next communication on Tuesday. It will either be "This is DeWayne Hodgett. I'm sorry I missed your call, but I will call you back on Thursday." That will provide a needed reminder that it is Tuesday. Or, we'll speak. You'll ask me about my weekend, so I'll know Fido's being interred and you'll say "Pick out any hamster wheel on the Sears website. Price is no object."
Best,
Carol
Blue Ribbon Services
Sears Holding Company
3333 Beverly Road
Hoffman Estates, Illinois 60179
Personal and Confidential
Dear DeWayne,
I know you meant well when you invited me to be your facebook friend. You wanted me to experience a different side of DeWayne. The DeWayne with 9,762 friends. The DeWayne who helps out at the soup kitchen. The DeWayne doing the perp walk.
But, DeWayne, I thought I was more to you than a facebook friend.
Our first encounter-nearly 3 months ago-- was brief, one sided and memorable only in retrospect as the beginning of a relationship. You left me a message saying that you were assigned to my case no. 3149639 and would call me in two days. True to your word, you called. I acknowledge I may not have been my best self in our conversation. I may have grumbled that for three months I had been living in a treadmill junkyard thanks to Sears. I may have complained about the limp I developed after I stubbed my toe on the 2nd broken Sole Fitness treadmill. I may have said,"there's not a snowball's chance in hell I will let a Sears treadmill into my house." I do know that I asked you for $2500 so I could get a new treadmill elsewhere. Unflappable, you told me you'd get back to me.
With uncanny sensitivity to my schedule, you called me every other day when I wasn't home, leaving me a message on land-line that you were sorry you missed me and that you would call in two days. I received that same message every other day for a month. In response to each message, I called you back, telling you I was sorry I missed your call and leaving you my cell phone number. You managed to leave me a message on cell every time I was on the subway.
I admit being mystified that your message was never more substantive than, "I'll call you in two days," but on August 16 when you did reach me, your reason became evident.
Only a sociopath would tell you your dog died by leaving you a message. A good person would cushion the blow with a little banter before the bad news. On August 16, you called, asked after my vacation and told me my dog died--metaphorically of course, as I don't have dog. Sears would not give me $2500. What could they do for me?
DeWayne, at that moment, perhaps because your tone was so beseeching, perhaps because the regularity of your calls enabled me to remember whether it was Monday or Wednesday, perhaps because I killed too many brain cells with $3 Trader Joe's Chardonnay, I lost my mind to you. "Okay," I said,"I'll give Sears one more chance. If you can deliver, set up and take out the broken treadmill in one visit, I'll go for it." You said you'd get back to me in two days.
For two more weeks, I received alternate day messages from you on my cell phone. I steeled myself for my dog's death. But, instead, on August 30, you gave me a birthday present. Just as you intuited my schedule, you intuited my birthday. "Pick out any treadmill on the Sears website and it's yours." Upping our intimacy level, we exchanged e-mail addresses.
I'm used to great birthday presents-- Tiffany necklaces, Broadway shows, chopped liver and kasha knish from the Second Avenue Deli-but a treadmill trumps them all. I was certain we had something special going.
I picked out a doozy, the Proform XP 580 Trainer Treadmill, checked its reviews, found out its dimensions and e-mailed you. When you left me a message two days later that you'd call me in two days, I could not and would not believe you had news of a dead canine. I was still on cloud nine, fantasizing running on my new ProForm 580, eliminating the six pounds I had gained since Sears terminated my exercise regimen.
When you began our phone call on September 7, with "How was your weekend?" I knew Fido was in his casket. "The Proform XP 580 is not available." "But DeWayne," I whined, "it's available on the Sears website."
You explained that it was not in a warehouse in my area and graciously invited me to pick out another one...any other one...and it would be mine.
I've picked out three more, none of which are available in my area. You maintain your graciousness in the face of my disappointment, urging me to keep selecting, but the only treadmills remaining cost $75 and are suitable for use by Fred and Wilma Flintstone.
DeWayne, I admit I'm inexperienced in matters of the heart. You led me down the primrose path with your reliability, generosity and empathy. I believed I was more than just one out of 9,762. DeWayne,with me it's all or nothing. If I cannot be your BFF, I will not be your "friend" at all. I nevertheless look forward to our next communication on Tuesday. It will either be "This is DeWayne Hodgett. I'm sorry I missed your call, but I will call you back on Thursday." That will provide a needed reminder that it is Tuesday. Or, we'll speak. You'll ask me about my weekend, so I'll know Fido's being interred and you'll say "Pick out any hamster wheel on the Sears website. Price is no object."
Best,
Carol
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Attaboy Ed (Take Two
June 15, 2010
Edward S. Lampert
CEO and President
Sears Holding Corp.
3333 Beverly Road
Hoffman Estates, Illinois
Dear Ed,
Kudos are in order. I didn't think it possible, given Sears'
extraordinary prior performance, but your company has exceeded my expectations. June 10, Lourdice(You remember her, don't you? My Sears fairy godmother who enhanced my decor with three non working treadmills?)called and told me she had arranged something special for me. I had only to call American Direct,make an appointment and an installer would arrive at my apartment to install my newest Sole Fitness treadmill and place the defective Sole treadmill in the box the new one had come in. Once the defective Sole was boxed, I had only to call Atlantic Freight to pick it up. Holding on to the 15 year old Pro-form treadmill(the treadmill emeritus,)I did a celebratory jig in the square foot of living room floor not occupied by gym equipment.
Friday, June 11 was the appointed day. That Thursday night I was a
kid on Christmas Eve. The possibility that I might reduce my treadmill inventory by a third as well as have one of the two remaining treadmills work was so thrilling, I could barely sleep. Towards morning, I dozed off, happily dreaming of starting a relationship with a new treadmill, while slightly sad at what would mark the termination of my relationship with Lourdice. When I awoke, I smiled,realizing it had just been a dream. My relationship with Lourdice would likely be lifelong, in as much as she had no idea how to get the treadmill emeritus out of my house.
At the crack of noon, Mejandro from American Direct, removed the new Sole from its box,placed it gently on the Ralph Lauren floral quilt I willingly sacrificed to the treadmill gods and dragged all 250 pounds of it from its honored position in the living room(where the couch had been) to the side of my bed. It lay there on its side wrapped in plastic while Mejandro disassembled the defective Sole, and dragged its 250 pound carcass
on a Liz Claiborne plaid quilt, which I also sacrificed, to the box. He got all the pieces in, closed the box, taped it shut and proceeded to my bedroom for the installation of the new Sole.
Mejandro unwrapped the plastic and gasped. Go ahead, Ed, guess why. No,
not because it was the most wondrous machine he'd ever seen. Because it was broken, Ed. The shaft, that should have been inside the machine, was sticking out and broken. I had sacrificed two irreplaceable quilts(well they might be replaceable, but not at the price I got them for)to ungrateful gods.
Ed, what can I say? I would like to say that I took this disappointment in stride, recognizing that my problem was trivial in the global scheme of things, but Ed, I'm not that big of a person. At that moment, had Bob Barker arrived at my home, crowned me Miss America and asked me what I wished for, I would not have said, "Bob, I wish all nations could get along and that we could have world peace." No, on national television, I would have smiled and said,"Bob, I would like have these three f**kin' treadmills out of my house." As Mejandro replaced the broken corpse of the new Sole on the the soft lillies of the quilt, and dragged it to my living room,right in front of my door, where it rejoined the other two treadmills, I first called your escalation unit where I spoke to Roslyn, narrated the Tale of the Three Treadmills and told her I wanted them out of my house that afternoon and my money back for the 15 years I paid for the useless warranty. Roslyn said she'd get back to me. Figuring that hell might freeze over before Roslyn called me back, I called your President's line where,at a higher decibel level,I spoke to Melanie. She filed her nails, listened politely, said she'd get back to me and ended the conversation with, "Thank you for choosing Sears."
Ed, had I not taken my pharmaceuticals that morning, had I lived in walking distance from a Wal-mart, had I not been a pacifist, after Melanie so graciously thanked me, I would have bought an automatic, taken the subway to Sears and hurt people.
G-d works in mysterious ways, Ed. Just as I slammed the phone down, an angel from Atlantic Freight arrived to pick up the boxed treadmill. The angel said, "I'm glad it's in a box. I had to pick up a treadmill the other day that wasn't boxed and it took two men." Having been told by Lourdice that even an angel couldn't pick up an unpackaged treadmill, I inquired, "You pick them up unboxed?" "Yes," he said. I asked him if he could take the emeritus and the broken Sole. He said he could if he had the order to do it.
Ed, I was distraught. Not only would I have share my apartment with 20 pieces of broken treadmill lying next to its 15 year old predecessor, but Lourdice, whom I had trusted with every fiber of my being, had lied to me. Betrayed, I had no reason to ever talk to Lourdice again, but I nevertheless left her a voice mail telling her what had occurred since the previous day.
I lay down with a cold compress on my head for several hours when, at 4:00, Roslyn called with unbelievably good news. Someone would pick up the treadmills on Sunday or Monday, whichever day I preferred and whatever time I preferred. I told Roslyn that the pick up should be made Monday, June 14, between 8:00 a.m. and 12 noon. Roslyn placed me on hold, confirmed the date and time and told me I'd receive an electronic call Sunday night giving me a two hour window. I could have kissed Roslyn. Instead, I thanked her profusely. "Roslyn," I inquired,"How is it that you managed to arrange what Lourdice said was impossible?" The question was rhetorical, Ed, so I didn't really listen to Roslyn's response.
I'm a glass half full kind of girl, Ed, so I banished all thoughts of Lourdice from my consciousness. But at 4:30 she called me. I guess some people would rather stay in a bad relationship that move on. "Lourdice," I asked," How is it that Roslyn was able to perform this miracle when,for three months, you couldn't get it done?"
Ed, Lourdice couldn't get functioning treadmills delivered or broken treadmills picked up, but I have to hand it to her. When backed into a corner, she's a fighter. "Are you telling me I don't know how to do my job?" she fairly spat at me. "No, Lourdice," I said soothingly,"I would never say that." A little afraid of her now, I was glad she couldn't see my eyes roll. Lourdice continued, "Roslyn can't do it and its not going to happen."
I'm a law abiding person Ed, but over the weekend I did take bets on whether the treadmills would be picked up timely. I provided the bettors with the treadmill history including Lourdice's final utterance. Whether because of Sears track record or Lourdice's possible interference, the odds that Sears would actually pick up the treadmills Monday a.m were 50-1. Betting closed at 4:00 Sunday.
6:00 p.m. Sunday, I did indeed receive an electronic message, giving the window for pick up: 4:00 p.m. to 6:00 p.m. I pressed "0" to speak to a representative and got Jason. When I told Jason that the treadmills had to be picked up between 8:00 and 12:00, that I worked and wouldn't be home in the afternoon, Jason patiently explained to me that 8:00-12:00 was merely a "request," that it couldn't be done in the a.m. and did I want to reschedule. Equally patient, but loud, I explained to Jason that I did want to "request" another time, I WANTED THEM PICKED UP IN THE MORNING. GET IT DONE. Jason, still patient, explained that he couldn't. "Jason, let me speak to your manager." "Why?" asked Jason. "Guess," said I. I was put on hold and after 20 minutes, Jason returned to the line. You'll have them picked up between 8:00 and 12:00.
Ed, I told Jason he deserves your job. (Don't be miffed Ed. I know no one could do it as well as you.) But I was a little sceptical. Was Jason humoring me or would Sears actually pick up the treadmills? If Jason had arranged it, would Lourdice throw a wrench into it?
Monday morning was tense. A driver called at 7:30. "Where are you?" he asked. I told him. "In the Bronx?"he asked. "No, Manhattan," I responded. "I don't know if I can get there. I'll call you back." "Just get here," I screamed. 10:00 a.m. Sharon, Roslyn's colleague from escalation called. "Sharon," I said, "call the driver and make sure he gets here." 10:10 Sharon called back. "I called the driver and told him to go to your house. He thought he was picking up refrigerators. I told him treadmills. I got his manager's number. Someone will be there by 12:00." I wrote down the manager's number.
By noon, there was no sign of Sears. I called the manager and heard the following recorded message: "You have reached, 201-546-3323. The person you have called is not accepting calls at this time." Although I now had clumps of my own hair in my hand, I found this message so fabulous that I took the time to transcribe it verbatim for use on my voice mail. It will be such a time saver.
12:30 the phone rang. "This is Sears. The men have been in front of your door for 1/2 hour and no one's there." "Not possible," I said, "this is a doorman buiding and I've been here all morning." "What's your address?" I told her. "Whoops, they're down the street at 51 Jane Street. They'll be right there."
And Ed, they were. Two big guys who lifted these treadmills as if they weighed no more than helium balloons. They worked for Ex-El, the company that delivers and picks up for Sears and guess what: they were incredulous at my treadmill tale.They always pick up appliances that are unboxed because, as they so aptly put it, "Why would you keep the box that
a useless refrigerator came in?"
Now, Ed, after this long story, you might be wondering what the kudos were for. So, I'll tell you. When I started this adventure with Sears, my expectation was that, thanks to the exorbitant warranty I had paid for for 15 years, I would receive, free of charge, a working treadmill. As you know, I don't have one. But, Ed, you are a master of reducing expectations. After three months of dealing with Lourdice, I am ecstatic...no, delirious...that I have no more broken treadmills in my house. The fact that I don't have a working treadmill does not seem to bother me. Sears has managed to satisfy me despite having breached its warranty.
Although the words ATTABOY ED are inadequate to convey my feelings about the job you're doing, I know of no other printable words to do it.
So ATTABOY ED. Keep up the good work.
Very truly yours,
Carol R. Abramson
Edward S. Lampert
CEO and President
Sears Holding Corp.
3333 Beverly Road
Hoffman Estates, Illinois
Dear Ed,
Kudos are in order. I didn't think it possible, given Sears'
extraordinary prior performance, but your company has exceeded my expectations. June 10, Lourdice(You remember her, don't you? My Sears fairy godmother who enhanced my decor with three non working treadmills?)called and told me she had arranged something special for me. I had only to call American Direct,make an appointment and an installer would arrive at my apartment to install my newest Sole Fitness treadmill and place the defective Sole treadmill in the box the new one had come in. Once the defective Sole was boxed, I had only to call Atlantic Freight to pick it up. Holding on to the 15 year old Pro-form treadmill(the treadmill emeritus,)I did a celebratory jig in the square foot of living room floor not occupied by gym equipment.
Friday, June 11 was the appointed day. That Thursday night I was a
kid on Christmas Eve. The possibility that I might reduce my treadmill inventory by a third as well as have one of the two remaining treadmills work was so thrilling, I could barely sleep. Towards morning, I dozed off, happily dreaming of starting a relationship with a new treadmill, while slightly sad at what would mark the termination of my relationship with Lourdice. When I awoke, I smiled,realizing it had just been a dream. My relationship with Lourdice would likely be lifelong, in as much as she had no idea how to get the treadmill emeritus out of my house.
At the crack of noon, Mejandro from American Direct, removed the new Sole from its box,placed it gently on the Ralph Lauren floral quilt I willingly sacrificed to the treadmill gods and dragged all 250 pounds of it from its honored position in the living room(where the couch had been) to the side of my bed. It lay there on its side wrapped in plastic while Mejandro disassembled the defective Sole, and dragged its 250 pound carcass
on a Liz Claiborne plaid quilt, which I also sacrificed, to the box. He got all the pieces in, closed the box, taped it shut and proceeded to my bedroom for the installation of the new Sole.
Mejandro unwrapped the plastic and gasped. Go ahead, Ed, guess why. No,
not because it was the most wondrous machine he'd ever seen. Because it was broken, Ed. The shaft, that should have been inside the machine, was sticking out and broken. I had sacrificed two irreplaceable quilts(well they might be replaceable, but not at the price I got them for)to ungrateful gods.
Ed, what can I say? I would like to say that I took this disappointment in stride, recognizing that my problem was trivial in the global scheme of things, but Ed, I'm not that big of a person. At that moment, had Bob Barker arrived at my home, crowned me Miss America and asked me what I wished for, I would not have said, "Bob, I wish all nations could get along and that we could have world peace." No, on national television, I would have smiled and said,"Bob, I would like have these three f**kin' treadmills out of my house." As Mejandro replaced the broken corpse of the new Sole on the the soft lillies of the quilt, and dragged it to my living room,right in front of my door, where it rejoined the other two treadmills, I first called your escalation unit where I spoke to Roslyn, narrated the Tale of the Three Treadmills and told her I wanted them out of my house that afternoon and my money back for the 15 years I paid for the useless warranty. Roslyn said she'd get back to me. Figuring that hell might freeze over before Roslyn called me back, I called your President's line where,at a higher decibel level,I spoke to Melanie. She filed her nails, listened politely, said she'd get back to me and ended the conversation with, "Thank you for choosing Sears."
Ed, had I not taken my pharmaceuticals that morning, had I lived in walking distance from a Wal-mart, had I not been a pacifist, after Melanie so graciously thanked me, I would have bought an automatic, taken the subway to Sears and hurt people.
G-d works in mysterious ways, Ed. Just as I slammed the phone down, an angel from Atlantic Freight arrived to pick up the boxed treadmill. The angel said, "I'm glad it's in a box. I had to pick up a treadmill the other day that wasn't boxed and it took two men." Having been told by Lourdice that even an angel couldn't pick up an unpackaged treadmill, I inquired, "You pick them up unboxed?" "Yes," he said. I asked him if he could take the emeritus and the broken Sole. He said he could if he had the order to do it.
Ed, I was distraught. Not only would I have share my apartment with 20 pieces of broken treadmill lying next to its 15 year old predecessor, but Lourdice, whom I had trusted with every fiber of my being, had lied to me. Betrayed, I had no reason to ever talk to Lourdice again, but I nevertheless left her a voice mail telling her what had occurred since the previous day.
I lay down with a cold compress on my head for several hours when, at 4:00, Roslyn called with unbelievably good news. Someone would pick up the treadmills on Sunday or Monday, whichever day I preferred and whatever time I preferred. I told Roslyn that the pick up should be made Monday, June 14, between 8:00 a.m. and 12 noon. Roslyn placed me on hold, confirmed the date and time and told me I'd receive an electronic call Sunday night giving me a two hour window. I could have kissed Roslyn. Instead, I thanked her profusely. "Roslyn," I inquired,"How is it that you managed to arrange what Lourdice said was impossible?" The question was rhetorical, Ed, so I didn't really listen to Roslyn's response.
I'm a glass half full kind of girl, Ed, so I banished all thoughts of Lourdice from my consciousness. But at 4:30 she called me. I guess some people would rather stay in a bad relationship that move on. "Lourdice," I asked," How is it that Roslyn was able to perform this miracle when,for three months, you couldn't get it done?"
Ed, Lourdice couldn't get functioning treadmills delivered or broken treadmills picked up, but I have to hand it to her. When backed into a corner, she's a fighter. "Are you telling me I don't know how to do my job?" she fairly spat at me. "No, Lourdice," I said soothingly,"I would never say that." A little afraid of her now, I was glad she couldn't see my eyes roll. Lourdice continued, "Roslyn can't do it and its not going to happen."
I'm a law abiding person Ed, but over the weekend I did take bets on whether the treadmills would be picked up timely. I provided the bettors with the treadmill history including Lourdice's final utterance. Whether because of Sears track record or Lourdice's possible interference, the odds that Sears would actually pick up the treadmills Monday a.m were 50-1. Betting closed at 4:00 Sunday.
6:00 p.m. Sunday, I did indeed receive an electronic message, giving the window for pick up: 4:00 p.m. to 6:00 p.m. I pressed "0" to speak to a representative and got Jason. When I told Jason that the treadmills had to be picked up between 8:00 and 12:00, that I worked and wouldn't be home in the afternoon, Jason patiently explained to me that 8:00-12:00 was merely a "request," that it couldn't be done in the a.m. and did I want to reschedule. Equally patient, but loud, I explained to Jason that I did want to "request" another time, I WANTED THEM PICKED UP IN THE MORNING. GET IT DONE. Jason, still patient, explained that he couldn't. "Jason, let me speak to your manager." "Why?" asked Jason. "Guess," said I. I was put on hold and after 20 minutes, Jason returned to the line. You'll have them picked up between 8:00 and 12:00.
Ed, I told Jason he deserves your job. (Don't be miffed Ed. I know no one could do it as well as you.) But I was a little sceptical. Was Jason humoring me or would Sears actually pick up the treadmills? If Jason had arranged it, would Lourdice throw a wrench into it?
Monday morning was tense. A driver called at 7:30. "Where are you?" he asked. I told him. "In the Bronx?"he asked. "No, Manhattan," I responded. "I don't know if I can get there. I'll call you back." "Just get here," I screamed. 10:00 a.m. Sharon, Roslyn's colleague from escalation called. "Sharon," I said, "call the driver and make sure he gets here." 10:10 Sharon called back. "I called the driver and told him to go to your house. He thought he was picking up refrigerators. I told him treadmills. I got his manager's number. Someone will be there by 12:00." I wrote down the manager's number.
By noon, there was no sign of Sears. I called the manager and heard the following recorded message: "You have reached, 201-546-3323. The person you have called is not accepting calls at this time." Although I now had clumps of my own hair in my hand, I found this message so fabulous that I took the time to transcribe it verbatim for use on my voice mail. It will be such a time saver.
12:30 the phone rang. "This is Sears. The men have been in front of your door for 1/2 hour and no one's there." "Not possible," I said, "this is a doorman buiding and I've been here all morning." "What's your address?" I told her. "Whoops, they're down the street at 51 Jane Street. They'll be right there."
And Ed, they were. Two big guys who lifted these treadmills as if they weighed no more than helium balloons. They worked for Ex-El, the company that delivers and picks up for Sears and guess what: they were incredulous at my treadmill tale.They always pick up appliances that are unboxed because, as they so aptly put it, "Why would you keep the box that
a useless refrigerator came in?"
Now, Ed, after this long story, you might be wondering what the kudos were for. So, I'll tell you. When I started this adventure with Sears, my expectation was that, thanks to the exorbitant warranty I had paid for for 15 years, I would receive, free of charge, a working treadmill. As you know, I don't have one. But, Ed, you are a master of reducing expectations. After three months of dealing with Lourdice, I am ecstatic...no, delirious...that I have no more broken treadmills in my house. The fact that I don't have a working treadmill does not seem to bother me. Sears has managed to satisfy me despite having breached its warranty.
Although the words ATTABOY ED are inadequate to convey my feelings about the job you're doing, I know of no other printable words to do it.
So ATTABOY ED. Keep up the good work.
Very truly yours,
Carol R. Abramson
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Dear Mr. Lambert
June 8, 2010
Edward S. Lambert
CEO and President
Sears Holdings Corp.
3333 Beverly Road
Hoffman Estates, Illinois
Dear Mr. Lambert,
This is not a complaint letter. I have nothing to complain about. I have wonderful friends, am comfortable financially and my health is good, thank G-d, except for an annoying twinge in my left wrist and occasional heartburn after kung pao chicken. I understand you're a very important man what with your single handedly running not only Sears and K-Mart but also Lands'End(from which, I want you to know, I purchased the most fabulous suck-it-all-in eggplant bathing suit which I wore to death in Cancun), but rest assured, this letter will occupy only a few minutes of your valuable time.
Ed(I hope you don't mind my calling you that, but I feel close to you),you must be the smartest CEO on earth, or at least in Hoffman Estates, Illinois. You appreciate that anyone can employ the best and the brightest to manage a company, but what do they get? A well run company that serves its customers and shareholders. You, Ed, care about more than the bottom line. You're a people person. You hire the mentally challenged,pay them a fair wage and send them out to to deal with Sears' customers. You change their lives. You're a veritable Mother Teresa.
You've changed my life too, Ed. For 15 years, every morning I arose, took my high blood pressure pill and walked for 20 minutes on my Sears Pro-form treadmill . My relationship with the treadmill was the most stable in my life. Like most relationships, it wasn't perfect. The treadmill was deafening, but I didn't complain. I simply learned to read Ann Curry's lips. The treadmill occasionally zoomed from 3.9 mph to 4.8 mph, propelling my head toward the console. I adjusted and wore a helmet. But one day, it stopped running altogether and I was forced to invoke the Sears warranty for which I'd paid $150 per year for 15 years- a total of $2250.
The repairman had me sit down while he gave me the bad news. The motor was kaput and irreplaceable. But, he said,comforting me with his hand on my shoulder, since it was under warranty, Sears would give me a brand new treadmill-free.
I was thrilled. I had wondered for years what Matt Lauer sounded like and now I'd know. I could shed the helmet. I'd be getting a new $900 treadmill, free. Within weeks I received a call from Lourdice, your employee in South Carolina. Like a fairy godmother, she told me to pick out the treadmill I wanted and she'd arrange the delivery. "But Lourdice, what about the pick up of the 15 year old treadmill? I don't have room for two treadmills." Lourdice assured me she'd take care of it.
On April 22, Atlantic Freight delivered my new Sole Fitness treadmill and left it in a box in the middle of my living room floor. The box was the size of my father's 1960 Chevy Impala. Michael, of American Direct, arrived to install it.He removed it from the box, moved my old Pro-form into the living room and moved my new Sole Fitness into the Pro-form's spot in the bedroom. The new Sole Fitness weighed 350 pounds, its footprint was 7 feet and its console, 5'3" high, bore a striking resemblance to the console that Scotty used to beam up the crew of the Enterprise. I couldn't wait to try it. Unfortunately, Michael could not get it to start. Michael disposed of the box and left. I called Lourdice. Lourdice said,"Don't worry. Sears will send it back to the manufacturer and we'll send you a brand new one." As of April 22, thanks to Sears, I had two treadmills.
Ed, you really are terrific. You must pay your employees alot more than I get paid. You see, I live in a NYC apartment. It isn't easy to fit one treadmill into a NYC apartment,let alone two. (It isn't easy to fit an extra hanger into a NYC apartment.) Lourdice must live in a very spacious house, because she was flummoxed by my repeated requests to have the two dead treadmills removed before a third was delivered. But, ever accommodating, she arranged to have Atlantic Freight pick up the defective Sole.
Atlantic Freight called me. Yippee, they were going to pick up the Sole Fitness and return it to the manufacturer. But it would have to be boxed, at the door, ready to go.
Boxed? I took a valium and left a message for Lourdice explaining the situation. Lourdice left me the following message: I don't understand why you don't have a box. Everyone knows when you return an item, it has to be in the box."
Until that moment, I was unaware of your generous hiring practices. But now it was clear that Lourdice either thought a treadmill was the size of a fruitcake or would return a rental car in a box.
I took an ativan and called her back. "Lourdice," I explained,"your installer disposed of the box. I HAVE NO BOX. And even if I had a box, there's no way in hell I could get a 350 pound machine into it. I'm 70 years old and I weigh 100 pounds." Okay, Ed, I admit I overstated my age and understated my weight, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
After deliberation, Lourdice called me back. "I'll take care of it,"she said.
The following day, Atlantic Freight called to arrange an appointment to deliver my new treadmill. No talk of pick up. "Sure, come tomorrow," I said. "What's one more treadmill?"
Ed, thanks to the generosity of Sears, I now have a trio of treadmills in my apartment. The new Sole, in pristine condition in its box, sits in the place that formerly housed my couch. I sit on it to watch "The Good Wife." The couch is in storage. The 15 year old Pro-form is propped up next to my dining room table requiring me to eat standing up. And the defective Sole is a 350 pound high tech sculpture in my bedroom. Like every body else's fitness equipment, it serves as a clothing hanger.
My morning activities have changed. I arise, take two blood pressure pills, one valium, one ativan and a prozac and spend 20 minutes talking to Lourdice,who is now the most stable relationship in my life. Like my relationship with the treadmill, it's not perfect. I ask her daily to remove two treadmills and install the third. She tells me daily that she's working on it. My guess is she hears me as clearly as I heard Ann Curry.
So, Ed, I can think of no better way of thanking you for how you changed my life than by paraphrasing our ex-president. ATTABOY, ED. Keep up the good work.
Very truly yours,
Carol R. Abramson
Edward S. Lambert
CEO and President
Sears Holdings Corp.
3333 Beverly Road
Hoffman Estates, Illinois
Dear Mr. Lambert,
This is not a complaint letter. I have nothing to complain about. I have wonderful friends, am comfortable financially and my health is good, thank G-d, except for an annoying twinge in my left wrist and occasional heartburn after kung pao chicken. I understand you're a very important man what with your single handedly running not only Sears and K-Mart but also Lands'End(from which, I want you to know, I purchased the most fabulous suck-it-all-in eggplant bathing suit which I wore to death in Cancun), but rest assured, this letter will occupy only a few minutes of your valuable time.
Ed(I hope you don't mind my calling you that, but I feel close to you),you must be the smartest CEO on earth, or at least in Hoffman Estates, Illinois. You appreciate that anyone can employ the best and the brightest to manage a company, but what do they get? A well run company that serves its customers and shareholders. You, Ed, care about more than the bottom line. You're a people person. You hire the mentally challenged,pay them a fair wage and send them out to to deal with Sears' customers. You change their lives. You're a veritable Mother Teresa.
You've changed my life too, Ed. For 15 years, every morning I arose, took my high blood pressure pill and walked for 20 minutes on my Sears Pro-form treadmill . My relationship with the treadmill was the most stable in my life. Like most relationships, it wasn't perfect. The treadmill was deafening, but I didn't complain. I simply learned to read Ann Curry's lips. The treadmill occasionally zoomed from 3.9 mph to 4.8 mph, propelling my head toward the console. I adjusted and wore a helmet. But one day, it stopped running altogether and I was forced to invoke the Sears warranty for which I'd paid $150 per year for 15 years- a total of $2250.
The repairman had me sit down while he gave me the bad news. The motor was kaput and irreplaceable. But, he said,comforting me with his hand on my shoulder, since it was under warranty, Sears would give me a brand new treadmill-free.
I was thrilled. I had wondered for years what Matt Lauer sounded like and now I'd know. I could shed the helmet. I'd be getting a new $900 treadmill, free. Within weeks I received a call from Lourdice, your employee in South Carolina. Like a fairy godmother, she told me to pick out the treadmill I wanted and she'd arrange the delivery. "But Lourdice, what about the pick up of the 15 year old treadmill? I don't have room for two treadmills." Lourdice assured me she'd take care of it.
On April 22, Atlantic Freight delivered my new Sole Fitness treadmill and left it in a box in the middle of my living room floor. The box was the size of my father's 1960 Chevy Impala. Michael, of American Direct, arrived to install it.He removed it from the box, moved my old Pro-form into the living room and moved my new Sole Fitness into the Pro-form's spot in the bedroom. The new Sole Fitness weighed 350 pounds, its footprint was 7 feet and its console, 5'3" high, bore a striking resemblance to the console that Scotty used to beam up the crew of the Enterprise. I couldn't wait to try it. Unfortunately, Michael could not get it to start. Michael disposed of the box and left. I called Lourdice. Lourdice said,"Don't worry. Sears will send it back to the manufacturer and we'll send you a brand new one." As of April 22, thanks to Sears, I had two treadmills.
Ed, you really are terrific. You must pay your employees alot more than I get paid. You see, I live in a NYC apartment. It isn't easy to fit one treadmill into a NYC apartment,let alone two. (It isn't easy to fit an extra hanger into a NYC apartment.) Lourdice must live in a very spacious house, because she was flummoxed by my repeated requests to have the two dead treadmills removed before a third was delivered. But, ever accommodating, she arranged to have Atlantic Freight pick up the defective Sole.
Atlantic Freight called me. Yippee, they were going to pick up the Sole Fitness and return it to the manufacturer. But it would have to be boxed, at the door, ready to go.
Boxed? I took a valium and left a message for Lourdice explaining the situation. Lourdice left me the following message: I don't understand why you don't have a box. Everyone knows when you return an item, it has to be in the box."
Until that moment, I was unaware of your generous hiring practices. But now it was clear that Lourdice either thought a treadmill was the size of a fruitcake or would return a rental car in a box.
I took an ativan and called her back. "Lourdice," I explained,"your installer disposed of the box. I HAVE NO BOX. And even if I had a box, there's no way in hell I could get a 350 pound machine into it. I'm 70 years old and I weigh 100 pounds." Okay, Ed, I admit I overstated my age and understated my weight, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
After deliberation, Lourdice called me back. "I'll take care of it,"she said.
The following day, Atlantic Freight called to arrange an appointment to deliver my new treadmill. No talk of pick up. "Sure, come tomorrow," I said. "What's one more treadmill?"
Ed, thanks to the generosity of Sears, I now have a trio of treadmills in my apartment. The new Sole, in pristine condition in its box, sits in the place that formerly housed my couch. I sit on it to watch "The Good Wife." The couch is in storage. The 15 year old Pro-form is propped up next to my dining room table requiring me to eat standing up. And the defective Sole is a 350 pound high tech sculpture in my bedroom. Like every body else's fitness equipment, it serves as a clothing hanger.
My morning activities have changed. I arise, take two blood pressure pills, one valium, one ativan and a prozac and spend 20 minutes talking to Lourdice,who is now the most stable relationship in my life. Like my relationship with the treadmill, it's not perfect. I ask her daily to remove two treadmills and install the third. She tells me daily that she's working on it. My guess is she hears me as clearly as I heard Ann Curry.
So, Ed, I can think of no better way of thanking you for how you changed my life than by paraphrasing our ex-president. ATTABOY, ED. Keep up the good work.
Very truly yours,
Carol R. Abramson
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