Wellness Letter has the opposite effect on me

Dear Wellness Letter,

I not only use to like you, I felt that by subscribing to your university-run newsletter I was supporting a worthy venture. Your straightforward nutritional and fitness information seemed so grounded and even honest--hardly like the swindler you now seem to me.

As the holidays kicked into gear, you sent me a hard-bound Wellness Calendar, the kind of letter-size datebook that sits on your desk. First, who still uses those? Seriously.

Second, I understand it's the end of the year, but sending objects and requiring someone to return it if they don't want it, especially as we head into Thanksgiving and Christmas, seems like a real burden. It was for me. It ended up getting lost in a pile of things to do.

Third, asking someone to opt out of something that costs money seems like a swindle to me and goes against what I thought you stood for. Now I see you as cutting through false marketing claims about supplements on one hand, then doing your own sleight of hand on the other. It's more than a contradiction; it compromises your reputation.

I can't separate the newsletter from the calendar. I don't think: I like the newsletter even though I hate the calendar. Honestly, I can't even look at the world "Wellness" without feeling stressed out and angry at you.

So here's my wellness plan for the new year: stop subscribing to your newsletter. That way I won't end up with a wasteful product that will never get used this time next year, let alone the snarky past due invoice that says:

Good intentions are terrific. But they're not going to keep you healthy. And they're not going to pay the bill. Both take follow-through. You demonstrated your good intentions when you made your original commitment to keep The Wellness Engagement Calendar. Now won't you please demonstrate your ability to follow through -- by paying the modest invoice enclosed? You'll feel a whole lot better.

For some reason, you think talking down to me is going to make me feel better. Instead, it's the final straw. I was dry kindling, and you just threw a match at me.

So here's some follow-through: when I say I will stop subscribing to your newsletter, I mean stop cold turkey. Right now. Even though my subscription ends in August, I want you to stop sending me your newsletter. I don't want anything more to do with you. You now have some of the worst brand associations to me, and it's emotional--even personal.

Like with my bad experience with eBay, it strikes me how easily a product/brand/service can lose goodwill. It takes repetition and good encounters to build a brand over time, but it doesn't take much to destroy it. Strangely, I find some of the worst actors in the marketing and customer care roles, and I'm not sure if it's because they are going by industry convention rather than common sense.

Invoices are touchpoints. They are forms of communication. Yet just like the invoice I got from Real Simple, they seem to be written without the brand experience in mind.

-joanie


UPDATE: I just called and canceled my subscription. The phone rep was all business, which was good for the task at hand, but I found it striking that she didn't even bother to ask me why I was canceling my service.

AT&T thinks I want to be a part of its family

Dear AT&T,

I am not a part of your family. Please don't say I am.

Even if at the end of a conversation your customer service representative thanks me for being a part of it, I am still not a part of your family. We're not even friends. We just don't have that kind of relationship because you're just not that kind of company, and calling me your family isn't going to convince me that you care about me or that I should care about you. 

If you want to show you care, how about delivering unparalleled network coverage, unmatched customer service, and great pricing? Or how about doing even one of these well? Instead, I think of your service as a necessary evil like paying taxes or clipping my toenails.

So don't call me your family, and the sooner, the better. It makes me hate you more for being both presumptuous and out-of-touch. The remark completely belies the fact that I call you only when I have problems. 

Unlike family, I didn't call to say "I love you" or "I miss you" or even "I need advice."  I called because you were charging me for a blackberry media plan when I didn't even have a blackberry, and when I had it removed, you took my text messaging away. To make matters worse, I didn't even know, which means I was sending text messages into the ether without so much as a failure notice. My friends got made at me for blowing them off, and that's when I called you. 

I suppose there's some guy in Marketing or Customer Relations who decided that thanking me for being a part of your family would impart a sense of warmth. Let me tell you that instead it gives the impression that you think being a part of your family is a good thing. Have you considered that maybe people aren't interested in being a part of someone else's family, let alone a corporate entity? You're not even real, and "family" is just a metaphor to you. 

You're not going to convince people that you're a deserving company until you turn the tables and start doing things that will make people want you to be in their family. 

-joanie

Wag Hotel takes care of me (and my dog, of course)

Dear Wag Hotel,

It's hard for parents of two small kids to be spontaneous and even harder when they also have a young puppy that just got all her shots but has yet to be boarded or housebroken. However, you made it possible. Thank you.

I have to admit that you weren't my first choice. I had wanted to try Fog City Dog when the time was right. My friend recommended it to me, and it's closer than the place I boarded my last dog (rest his soul), Pet Camp. 

But it was already Friday at 4pm when we realized we had a problem. Earlier that day, my husband made last-minute reservations for a romantic getaway at the Ritz Carlton in Half Moon Bay. I arranged for my mom to watch the kids. And our little puppy? Well...we hadn't worked that part out.

So I called Fog City Dog. They said that they wouldn't take a dog without having first submitted to a temperament test. Nothing could be worked out today. I said I was desperate and wanted to know if she had any advice for me. Silence. No "um" or "uh," just silence. Did she hang up on me? I didn't know, but I would have appreciated something like, "I'm sorry. I don't." Anything.

I hung up and called Pet Camp. The phone system gave me every option, the very last being the opportunity to talk to a real human. However, the phone just rang and rang before going to voice mail.

Finally, I thought of you. I remembered driving by your hotel a few months ago and then looking you up on Yelp. The reviews were mediocre, but the fact that you positioned yourself as a hotel gave me the strong impression that you might cater to my wishes. Perhaps you would go the extra mile to help me out.

And you did, not by bending over backward. You didn't need to; your policy simply accommodated busy people like me, who don't usually have it together. So by 5pm, you had my dog, my credit card number, and my gratitude.

You made me realize that high-end pet hotels are not about dogs; it's about the owners or humans or whatever you want to call people like me–the kind of folks that pay for doggie day care, among other services, because we want it all and are willing to trade price for the privilege to keep all our balls in the air for another day. 

Thus, the real customer experience here is not around luxury accommodations for my dog, although that's an important part of your brand story. Instead, it's about luxury accommodations for my crazy, unplanned life, which needs more getaways, not less. 

So thanks again.

-joanie

Dave from Allstate makes be feel like I'm in good hands

Dear Dave,

I haven't spoken to you in awhile, which I like. You don't try to sell me things all the time. 

That doesn't mean we don't talk. There were plenty of occasions, like that time another driver backed into me and left the scene. She didn't realize that she hit me, and it caused some initial concern as my claim became disputed. In the end, everything worked out just fine.

There were the conversations about coverage levels and the difference between term and permanent life insurance. You told me what to consider (rather than which to choose), and I felt like I could ask you almost anything. You're like an avuncular genie in a bottle who appears only when I need you.

A few weeks ago, my State Farm agent, who handles my home insurance, began actively trying to get my auto insurance business. I called her about a home alarm discount, and she took it as an opportunity to expand our relationship. That's to be expected. 

She ran some numbers. Her auto insurance policy is more expensive–and includes a curious and rather significant "monthly service charge"–but she says that I'll save overall when you include a discount for having both home and auto insurance. That put me on the fence and got me thinking, but it wasn't enough to win me over.

So I haven't gotten back to her, which is hard because she's pretty aggressive. I've been busy, too, and maybe a small part of me had been avoiding her since I'm risk-adverse and changing insurance is a risky thing in my book. 

I imagine insurance is largely a fickle business and loyalty is hard to come by. No matter what you do, some people will simply follow the money. My guess is that you assume people are on the fence all the time. That means you must be on your game every day. 

For me, however, the money's not enough. Neither is liking you. Ultimately, I'm interested in trust. When I find myself in an accident, am I going to have peace of mind? Am I going to know everything will be okay?

In your case, I have been in accidents and I did have peace of mind. We have a history that makes me confident. In my mind, the question before me is this: Am I willing to trade that trust to save a couple dollars over the course of a year?

The answer is no.

Yesterday I received my new 6 month policy from you, as well as an insurance bill. This morning, I received my first email from you. (It was kind of like the time my dad sent me an email but without the all-caps.) You said that you valued my business. From any other service provider, those would have been empty words. I actually believe them coming from you.

I suspect that people like me make up the small but stable core of your business. I've been with you about fifteen years, and that's got to be an indication that I'll likely be around another fifteen more.

This isn't a question of customer loyalty but rather personal values, which only become clear over time. 

-joanie

Real Simple puts me on notice

Dear Real Simple,

What's up with the threatening mail? It seems neither productive nor fitting of your brand personality.

But let's talk about this "Final Notice" that I recently received from the collection department of your parent company, Time Inc. I guess it manages our relationship, which isn't good because...well, it screwed it up. It's tough talk, including the use of ALL CAPS, only left me with a bad impression of you.

The correspondence began rather coldly with "Your account has been in arrears for months" and built up to the rather agitated demand "THIS IS THE FINAL NOTICE YOU WILL RECEIVE. REMIT YOUR DELINQUENT PAYMENT IMMEDIATELY." If your goal was to get me to renew my subscription, then you were going about it all the wrong way. 

Strong-arm tactics are no way to develop a customer relationship and certainly not good at deepening one, which is really what your goal should have be. How about being clear when my subscription ended? How about reminding me to renew my subscription and reiterating the benefits in a tone that recognizes that my life is clearly busy? (Surely you know I'm busy or I wouldn't need a magazine with the tag line "life made easier.") What if you simply stopped sending me magazines and used nice language to encourage to me to return?

Why are you talking to me through invoices, anyway? They're a pretty poor way to communicate. They don't even pretend to be interested in me. Rather, they remind me that you only ever talk to me when you think I owe you money, and I don't recall you even saying "thank you" when I pay up. I am starting to question if our relationship is important or meaningful to you. 

In fact, this Final Notice of yours makes me wonder if I want to support such abusive business tactics. To be honest, I like you. I have kept every issue of your magazine since I started subscribing in 2004. I prefer reading you over Martha Stewart, which never really spoke to my lifestyle. But I really don't like how you treat your subscribers. 

Please take a second to consider my perspective: I subscribe to quite a few magazines. I get a lot of invoices, sometimes right after I renew with a special offer to extend my renewal. I get seasonal offers to give a free friend subscription. I get limited time offers to renew months before the expiration date. In most cases, I can't easily tell when my subscriptions actually expire. I have become desensitized to invoices. If other subscribers are like me, which I suspect is true, then I surmise that magazines have responded by sending even more invoices even earlier in the cycle.

Today I called your Customer Service department. The terse conversation that followed made me realize that I am, first and foremost, an account number to you. When asked if I wanted to renew my subscription, I decided to say no. She simply replied okay, processed my request, and was done with me. It was literally "real simple" to cancel my subscription.

Surprisingly, she didn't even ask me why. She actually seemed a little mad at me. This brief interaction was especially odd since you, Real Simple, are paying an actual person to interact with me, and yet you're getting little (if any) benefit of a human interaction. I'm not sure how much you spend to acquire subscribers, but you certainly let them go rather easily.

In the end, I decided not to renew my subscription because I just don't want to give my money to a company that appears to take me for granted and uses words like "DELINQUENT" as a way to earn my repeat business. I just can't condone those tactics, even if you are hardly alone.

Your industry needs to wake up and see that magazine subscribers like me are ambivalent. There's a lot good and free content available, and we have less time to read magazines. But we also see them as necessary indulgences. So while it may take very little to lose our business, it doesn't have to take a whole lot to keep it. But to do so, you need to ditch the angry invoices and start communicating with us like customers that you truly respect and appreciate. 

I'm going to miss your magazine–I really am–but it certainly seems like my life is "made easier" without this stress, even if your tips are great.

-joanie

3rd Street Grill scores high points

Dear 3rd Street Grill,

The other day, I ordered simply a "hamburger and fries," and you delivered a mouthful of heaven. It was a memorable experience and worth appreciating in some detail because it took subtle work on your part. 

Delivering a memorable hamburger is not easy. I didn't have to eat one of your hamburgers; there were a range of substitutes. I could have ordered your California Crunchy salad, which I like, or I could have eaten somewhere else entirely. Perhaps the stars were aligned, but I think it would be appropriate to give you much more credit than that metaphor implies.

I suspect that you know that  you make a good hamburger. But you're not a burger joint, which is actually why I started eating at your restaurant. I was looking for a good yet simple salad place with a relaxed atmosphere and fairly speedy service. You filled this niche for me. And you consistently delivered. 

Yet much like a well-laid trap, you snapped into action when triggered with the words "hamburger." Suddenly you had the opportunity to surprise and over-deliver. This was the ripe moment for capitalizing on your strengths to guarantee a word-of-mouth experience.

And you did. You said, "Would you like avocado, grilled onions, or cheese?" I suddenly imagined a hamburger with avocado, grilled onions, and cheese. It looked really good in my head so I had my hamburger with all three. 

This was the moment. You could have limited your sights on simply an up-sell, much like an endcap or a "You might also like..."-type offering. You could have vaguely asked, "Would you like anything else?" or even "How about cheese with that?" You could have told me that you just baked a pie. Instead, you spoke about relevant accoutrements in concrete terms: avocado, grilled onions, cheese. You even wondered if I wanted some "hand-squeezed lemonade" to go with that. 

You understood that customers aren't very good at imagination. That takes work, and we're on our lunch break. Plus, you want to direct that imagination to ensure it ends up where you can deliver on it. It's a subtle but active process. 

Here's where I happily ended up:

You're actually not a trap. This metaphor is too focused on the immediate event. You're really much more like a pinball machine, and the servers are the flippers that keep the ball in play to earn points. Sometimes, the ball affords fewer points (like when I order the California Crunchy). Other times, it comes in perfectly to produce a lot of points (like when I want a "hamburger and fries").

The key is delivering on the former to get you to the those high score moments, and then responding appropriately. 

-joanie

North Beach Pizza treats me like a thief

Dear North Beach Pizza,

I just ordered a pizza from Round Table. Frankly, I prefer eating yours, but the last couple of times I ordered from your Mission Street outpost, I was left with a conflicted feeling inside. This time, I decided your pizza just wasn't worth the emotional overhead.

Let me explain. A few weeks ago, I called to order a pizza. It was the usual set-up: I say what I want, and you tersely read me back my order. (It's all business with you, isn't it?) This time, however, you paused when I wanted to do something I do every time: use my credit card. Apparently my account says that I'm untrustworthy.

The unfortunate person on the phone said I couldn't use a credit card and had clearly not been taught what to say in such uncomfortable moments of confrontation because I asked why and was told that the computer said so. I was forced to escalate.

I explained to your manager that I liked your pizza and thus wanted to clear the matter. I said that I always pay with a credit card and never encountered a problem before. Certainly no one ever contacted me about one, and you have my phone number. I insisted that if there was a problem in the past, I wanted to resolve it. I found myself in the very weird position of having to sell you on me, to convince you to want me as a customer. 

Perhaps your manager had heard this type of rambling before because he seemed unmoved. But I'm tenacious, and I pressed on. I guess I wore him down because he eventually succumbed, and my credit card was accepted. The pizza was great (as always), but it took a lot of work. 

I thought a lot about what happened and have a theory, assuming you're right about me not paying for a pizza. It has to do with the fact that my credit card was recently stolen, and I was issued a replacement. Perhaps I ordered a pizza and the payment was authorized on my old card but failed to clear before it was inactivated and replaced by my new one. It's only a theory since you couldn't give me any information about why you won't take my credit card. 

In fact, the theory is unimportant. The point is that I thought a lot about what happened. I re-lived the experience over and over in my head, and it didn't really matter that I got the pizza in the end because the experience just bugged me. I couldn't let it go because I consider myself an upstanding person, and my reputation actually really matters to me. I'm the kind of person that goes back into a store when I've been undercharged, and I prompt checkers to scan items that appear hidden. So it hurt me to know that you think I'm some kind of pizza thief when I truly make a concerted effort to live my life on the up-and-up.

From a customer service perspective, it was unfortunate that you couldn't tell me precisely what had happened and simply allowed me to right the situation. Instead, I'm just blacklisted. Done.

I tried to order another pizza a few weeks later. The computer apparently stills says that I'm untrustworthy. I realized that my conversation with your manager was just a one-off, and that you don't care to let me clear my name, which is actually really important to me. My business, it seems, is just too much trouble for you. So I paid in cash, and by doing so, I felt that I was validating your view of me. 

So today I had the cash; I just didn't have the will to go through that debasement again. I realized that you were too much trouble for me. Your pizza is good; it's just not that good. I guess I got my pride back. 

I don't imagine you'll ever take the time to salvage our relationship (even after I tried so hard the first time) so I don't expect to be calling you again. Round Table is just fine with me because enjoying pizza is more than liking the pie. It's about feeling good about myself and how I spend my money.

Oddly, the best part of calling Round Table was the conversation itself, which revealed that the person on the other end was actually listening to me. He made a witty joke about my new address, and it showed a human side. Then, when the pizza came, I noticed that the box said, "The Last Honest Pizza.®" I thought there was something quite fitting and rather true about that.

-joanie

KFC Taco Bell makes me feel ashamed

Dear KFC Taco Bell,

This week I took my daughters to your humble location on Ocean Avenue in San Francisco. In terms of ambiance, it very much fit in with its neighbors: a laundromat and 7-11 convenience store. All three seemed to try their best to shuffle people in and out. 

I remember the days before KFC and Taco Bell "synergized," so to speak. While it was unlikely that your eventual union was a reflection of an ever-present desire for both fried chicken and tacos, your cohabitation made it possible to finally think it, offering newfound possibilities in a burgeoning area of "food mash-ups." This was mind-blowing...in a good way  because there was, suddenly, a third option, a blend of Southern and South of the Border. Let's call it SXSB.

But over the years, your sheen faded. Your offerings seemed dull and even depressing. The food was over-promised and under-delivered. Sometimes, it was just plain absurd. Or maybe I outgrew you. 

Last week, however, I saw a commercial for your Smoky Chipotle fried chicken, and you suddenly seemed somewhat attractive to me again. So imagine how I felt when my kids asked to go to Taco Bell. I thought, Here's my opportunity! The magic of the combined restaurants made it possible. I felt the thrill of a love affair that had the power to burn hot once more. 

Unfortunately, you didn't deliver. The chicken was actually quite good. The rest only reminded me of the reasons that I had fallen out of love with you.

To start, the atmosphere inside was bleak. There was nothing to "warm up the crowd," so to speak. Nothing to anticipate. There was no positive, compelling experience like there is, say, in every In-N-Out, where the wait to get your food only builds up your confidence that your burger will live up to the promise. You see the burgers being made and delivered, even if you're sitting in the drive-thru. Burgers are exposed in all their glory as they get delivered to the people ahead of you. When you wait, you bear witness and believe. 

Not at a KFC Taco Bell. I was handed my order to go even though I planned to eat in. This left me and my two kids shamefully eating out of a plastic bag.

What's worse, my order came with a side of mashed potatoes. I wanted a salad, and since what I ordered was pictured with one, I didn't bother to specify. You, KFC Taco Bell, didn't bother to ask. And I just accepted the mistake.

Then I unwrapped my daughters' burritos. Consider the reveal. Practically every item from Taco Bell is delivered like a Christmas present, concealed in its own wrapper. That means there's an expectant moment leading to a surprise. Imagine my surprise when I discovered these:

The spork is included for scale.

Simply put: there is nothing "double" about these two Cheesy Double Beef Burritos. In fact, these look nothing like the picture in your menu. I'm not even sure they should be called "burritos." They were misshapen and small. Very misshapen and very small. And you made me hand them to my daughters for dinner. 

Much like the wait at In-N-Out, those burritos made me believe. Unfortunately, they made me believe that you just don't care about me, and that makes me not want to care about you. No wonder I didn't want to tell you about the mashed potatoes. 

To add insult to injury, we ate our disappointment out of a bag as I stared at my receipt.

It's okay that you misspelled my name, but it doesn't hide the fact that this little slip of paper says it all. 

You should know that receipts are an important (although often neglected) part of the experience. People clutch them as they wait, read them in boredom as they eat, and even save them should they write off the meal. They are touchpoints. They are opportunities to tell your story.

And in your case, it did. It reinforced a story that began when I entered and ended as I cleaned up after myself and left in silence. It was a story about a transaction, not a relationship. I am literally an order number to you, even if you asked for (and then butchered) my name as if you were Starbucks. 

I'll return again, but my expectations will be low.

-joanie (a.k.a. joney)

Target enables blissful spending

Dear Target,

Today I returned a radio-controlled F-150 toy truck after my daughter contracted pink eye and was unable to attend a birthday party. I didn't have a receipt, and you took it back in the blink of an eye. This wasn't the first time I returned items without a receipt, but each time I do it, I smile. Then I turn around and shop some more. 

Maybe you realized that you could apply some casino-logic to consumer spending: A little win up-front makes it easy to part with a lot in the end. Tell me, when did you realize that an easy return policy simply encouraged people to return to your irresistible wonderland, transforming a $22.18 refund into a $145.94 sale? 

You have it figured it. Or, rather, you have me figured out. Despite the mediocre staff and the sometimes unbearable wait to check out, you've managed to delight me every time I visit. You are like the perfect spouse: dependable with the essentials yet still willing to surprise me in the most unexpected ways.

For me, it wasn't the introduction of designers products or the thoughtfully redesigned pill bottles that has everyone else talking. It was, oddly, the piñatas I discovered in the party section. I realized that you weren't simply crossing class barriers. You were bridging ethnic divides! I suddenly saw on your shelves a world of possibility, and there was a place for me in it.

Every night I sleep wrapped in one of two Thomas O'Brien sheet sets. I love these sheets, and I credit you, Target, for bringing them into my life. Who else carries this brand? No one, I think. Honestly, I don't really know so you've done a remarkable job to co-opt individual brand value for your own good. Right on. That's the mark of a big box master, and you reached the pinnacle.

This is why I don't feel guilty giving you my money. You deserve it, although I am trying to consume less and be a better person. It's hard, though; you're the ultimate enabler. But I've managed, in part because you've made the essentials sexy again. I don't need discretionary spending when I'm enthralled by bandages and hand soap. 

And then there is that easy return policy, which makes me think I'm being fiscally responsible as I spend away and blissfully feel good about it.

-joanie

Aveda salesperson makes me feel guilty

Dear Aveda salesperson,

This weekend, I visited your shop in Stonestown Galleria, and I can say without a doubt that you have a tough job. You have to cheerfully sell salon-grade beauty products in the mall, and it's not even the nice mall. But it's the one closest to the my house, and parking is easy. In other words, it's that mall. 

This means you sell products to me, a late thirty-something woman, who in her aging pragmatism is willing to spend a little more on a trusted brand. While I am still young enough to incorporate a few up-and-coming brands in my regimen, I keep your products around like some people carry their pillow onto the airplane. Your products give me confidence that my hair will at least look okay. That actually means a lot to me, even if it doesn't sound glamorous to you. 

I would encourage you to embrace this fact. It might help us avoid those awkward encounters we seem to keep having, like the time I entered the shop, grabbed a jar of Control Paste, and headed straight to the counter to pay. You unsuccessfully offered me a dainty cup of tea as if I might want to stick around. It was the nice, yet naive, gesture of a young man who may never know what it's like to be a mother shopping with two kids in tow. But know this: It will take a lot more than tea to get me to relax in the mall with my kids. 

With this memory still fresh, I returned to your shop last Saturday, once again with two kids, and this time with my sights set on the Rosemary Mint shampoo. When you rung me up, you asked, "Would you like to save a bag today?"

Would I like to save a bag today? I didn't like that question, and it caused me some consternation. If I said "Yes," I would be a do-gooder, which I'd like to think I am. But if I said "No," well... there's no way to feel good about that. And that was precisely my problem. I wanted a bag, and you left me with no graceful exit.

Before I finish my story, let me stop and make a suggestion:  Don't make customers feel guilty about using a bag because it leaves them feeling bad about the overall experience (and thus the brand) and it chastises them for making a purchase, which is the very reason they need a bag. There are better ways to encourage customers to save bags and simply better ways to ask. 

In my case, I bought a 34 oz jug of shampoo, which weighed 2 pounds (and said perhaps too much about me). My purse couldn't accommodate it, and I wasn't carrying any other bags. If you considered my purchase, you might have thought twice about asking your question the way you did because lugging that much shampoo around the mall would have been rather awkward. But it was clear that you did not, and frankly this made a face-to-face transaction feel oddly impersonal.

What's more, I was carrying in my hand a Belkin Mini Surge Protector (yes, the one with two USB chargers!) from the Apple store downstairs, where I had just refused a plastic bag knowing that I would get a paper one from you. So, in fact, I had saved a bag today, just not one of yours. It may be asking too much of you to put the clues together, but you wouldn't have had to if you simply asked me if I would like a bag, without the moral spin that forces me to disparage myself.

Young salesperson, I like your energy and good intentions. I worked in the mall and know what it can do to your spirit. But I hope if you are interested in honing your craft that you actually look at your customers and interact with them as individuals. That means noticing the details, learning to read people and empathize with them even if they are different than you, and most of all leaving them feeling good about their experience in your shop. You aren't selling products. You are Julie, this little Aveda shop is your Love Boat, and every passenger is different. Even the grumbly ones like me can find love again, right? Well, at least you have to believe it. 

Sales is one of the best skills you will ever know. If you are smart, you will use it in every aspect of your life. Even if you hate your job, take this opportunity to exercise your interpersonal skills because, as you will see, those who have them are most likely to succeed...and please others in the process. 

-joanie

eBay makes "winner" feel bad about herself

Dear eBay,

Today I vowed never to buy anything on your site again. Frankly, it took a lot less than I would have expected, but then again one bad experience can easily slide down that slippery slope.

Initially, I wanted to blame "justforkidsaccessories," who didn't return my initial emails telling her that I never received the item. Her lack of regard for my situation, let alone failure to communicate with customers, were only made worse by the fact that she acknowledged that the USPS never delivered the item for whatever reason.

Fine. One bad transaction, you say. But guess what, eBay? There are thousands of sellers just like her churning out frustrated buyers, who quite easily can turn that hostility toward you. That's what happened to me.

Here's my tale. On March 9, 2008, I "won" a VTech joystick for my daughter's gaming system. I paid for it that same day, then waited and waited.

I sent the seller an email and waited for a response. Nothing. I sent another email, waited some more, and still nothing. I contacted eBay to get additional contact information. I called her at home. She apologized and said she would look into it. She seemed genuine so I waited. Nothing. I emailed her. Nothing.

I finally did what you, eBay, told me was the next step: open a dispute. Then I waited for resolution, although frankly I didn't know what that meant. Now I see that it meant nothing because that's precisely what happened.

So I called PayPal for a refund. The rep, a nice enough guy, explained that I waited too long for a refund. That policy was stated in the User Agreement when I signed up. I should have read it, he said. Maybe, but then again getting that kind of information when you're creating an account is the wrong time and place to deliver important information for when things go awry ten years later. But I digress...

I replied to the rep that more than anything, I was angry and needed some kind of resolution to give me closure. He pointed out that $18.65 was a relatively small loss and that he had, on previous occasions, needed to have this same uncomfortable conversation with other "winners," but ones who had lost a whole lot more than me. It did make me feel a little better about my loss, but it also made me feel a whole lot worse about you, eBay. As far as I'm concerned, $18.65 is the price you paid to lose my business, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

With a refund off the table, I decided to give the seller a negative review. Then at the last minute, I decided to give the dispute resolution one last try. This time I would tell the seller point blank to give me a refund.

Turns out all I was doing was running down the clock because when nothing happened and I tried once again to write that negative review, guess what? It was too late to do that, too.

So, eBay, here's how I feel:

1. You made it hard to figure out what to do when a transaction went awry: 1) your Help content is confusing and out-of-date; 2) you seem to purposefully make it hard to find links to contact customer service representatives; and 3) when these reps write back, it's clear they are often pasting in canned responses then actually trying to help you resolve issues before the clock runs down.

2. You penalized me for being patient and following your process, which takes time because when you contact people, it involves waiting. Waiting is apparently the last thing I should have been doing.

3. If a policy is so important that not knowing it will turn people against you, then put it up front. First, people don't tend to read the User Agreement, and you're not going to change that. Therefore (and this is my second point), you have no regard for giving people the information they need when they need it. How about emailing that policy right after payment is made? Third, putting important information in the User Agreement and then telling people they should have read it makes it seem like you're hiding it and blaming your customers for not reading the fine-printed legalese that we can't understand anyway. Fourth, helping "winners" like me when things should go awry just doesn't seem to be a priority for you.

Bottom line: I feel like a chump, and it doesn't matter if that's my fault for not knowing the process and waiting too long because it's a feeling that I associate with you, eBay. And since I don't like feeling this way, it's better if I don't use your service.

And there you have it. Your giant garage sale has one less "winner." But since the phones are ringing and no one's home, I suspect it doesn't matter. You are a juggernaut, and I am but one person. My guess is that it's the overall picture that matters to you. The big numbers. Your top line.

There are other companies that can fill the void you left, companies that I trust, even if things go awry every now and then because they at least have ways to catch those experiences that fall through the cracks. And their cracks aren't nearly as big as yours either, eBay.

So it's goodbye.

-joanie

PS: Remember that need for resolution I had? I finally have it. Here. It took me nearly two hours to write this letter, but I feel a whole lot better. And now I have a blog.