Cursed Tongue: Refrigerate This

Posted by CursedTongue on June 14, 2006

On Saturday, when I opened my refrigerator, I noticed it was kind of warm inside. The digital readout said 68 degrees. The words, “That can’t be right,” struggled to surface in my sleep-fogged brain. The fridge was six months old. So the good news was that the fridge was under warranty. The bad news was that there was about $300 worth of groceries in there. My husband likes to be stocked up on staples. I admit it makes planning meals easier, but I’m still not convinced that bacon and vanilla ice cream are staples.

After wringing my hands for 30 seconds I realized I needed someone more mechanically inclined, so I risked poking the bear and woke my husband a half hour early. I scoured the manual while he removed the grate shielding the coils in an attempt to figure out what was going on. After going through all three of the completely useless troubleshooting steps, we determined that we must brave customer service.

I called the Service Repair Center and was glad that I could take some of my frustration out on the automated voice-recognition menu. After a couple of failed attempts to recognize what I was saying I apparently took a little too much anger out on her by calling her an ignorant megabeast harpy and she chirruped, “I’m sorry. I didn’t understand your response. Please hold for our next available representative.”

After what felt like a good 45 minutes, but was more like 20 because I was tired of hearing about how I could get help on their website, I heard the dulcet sounds of another human voice. “Tricia” told me that the soonest appointment was next Friday. The soonest we could keep perishable food in the house was after 8 a.m. till noon on Friday? She transferred me to the warranty department to see if there was anything earlier. I spoke with “Vera Lee” and quickly realized from her southern-part-of-the-Midwest accent that I was definitely dealing with an American.

Here’s the part where I might be executed for betraying the United States of America. I think outsourcing call centers is a good thing. While you gasp and sputter please consider how badly customer service people are treated by irate citizens of the U.S. who believe they deserve an immediate appointment to fix marginally necessary appliances, like refrigerators.

Further consider that Americans, while they seem to be good at dishing out rude, aren’t very good at taking it. (Reflect on our opinion of the French. In my three-day trip to Paris I endured considerably less rudeness than in almost any three-day period during my time in Chicago.) I feel fairly secure that I won’t be patronized, yelled at, hung up on, or get snide remarks from people who sound as if they learned English by watching Friends.

Vera Lee asked a series of questions, and then told me the soonest appointment was still Friday from 8 a.m. to noon. (In case you were wondering, when you’re on the phone trying to get your under-warranty refrigerator serviced, the answer to the question, “Does your fridge contain life-saving medicine?” is always yes.) I asked Vera Lee if there was any alternative to waiting six days for repairs. She said we could call Amana, the manufacturers of the fridge. I tried to ask her if that would void our warranty, but she plowed ahead with a speech she was obviously reading from her screen. She told me that two pounds of dry ice in the freezer would keep the food fresh for “up to three days.”

As I opened my mouth to ask my question I heard a click. I gaped at the silence and when I realized for certain that she’d hung up on me. I called her something much worse and much shorter than an ignorant megabeast harpy. When my husband called back we found out that having Amana fix the fridge would void the warranty.

We tried “rebooting” our fridge a few times, by unplugging it and letting it rest for a few minutes. Then we frantically loaded coolers with ice packs and food. My husband even tried the techniques he had learned from the Fonzie School of Appliance Repair and Maintenance. Unfortunately, to no avail.

On Monday, I called Service Repair three times. I filed a complaint with the BBB. I e-mailed their general customer service center. My husband called them again. He used his dissatisfied customer voice with “Karen,” who transferred him to the Rapid Response Team. Apparently, calls to the Rapid Response Team are fielded by the dial tone.

I never ever wanted to talk to another customer service representative again. But on Tuesday, there was an e-mail in my inbox from the people I had convinced myself were a bloodthirsty band of ex-telemarketers out for vengeance. It was vaguely written and vaguely apologetic. There was a number included for their main customer service line. I steeled myself for another round of parroting my information and repeating my increasingly difficult-not-to-whine story (to which I had added the 111 degree Fahrenheit weather (the truth), and a baby, whose formula had to be refrigerated (not so much the truth).

I gave “Megan” my name. She knew immediately who I was. I suspected I had been giving them my phone number and address as part of their strategy of vicious psychological torture employed to break customers. But Megan had good news for me. I had an appointment that day. Poised for an argument, I nearly challenged her cheery announcement.

The repair technician appeared as promised. In about twenty minutes he had replaced the fan (of which there was a new, improved replacement), filled out paperwork and was on his way. For all of our angst it was very anticlimactic.

And for the record there’s absolutely no way two pounds of dry ice would have kept our food from spoiling for one day, let alone “up to three days.”

- Sarah Letnes

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