Lisa's blonde moment #187 and #188

After the toilet paper fiasco (you can read about it here: http://2012-proudlyme.nlogspot.com.au/2012/09/the-day-i-grew-tail.htm), I didn't think I could get any "blonder".

Today I did. 

I have the house to myself for two whole weeks before the rest of the family return from their sea kayaking adventure around Kadavu, Fiji. I decided that this would be an opportune time to detox and exercise since I didn't have any distractions. I also thought it would be a perfect time to absolutely spring clean the house, top to bottom and every pet haired filled corner. Thankfully I had a three day weekend right in the middle of the two weeks to get all "domestic goddessish" (yes, that is a word) done and dusted. 

First, the detox plan. It's going well and I haven't strayed at all. No caffeine, sugar, chocolate, meat, diary, salt - actually nothing much but dust and water along with my detox supplements. (Luckily my house was dusty or I would have starved by now). But seriously. I have two weeks of no rushing back to collect kids, no cooking dinners or making lunch boxes and I decided NOT to party? Hello.... perhaps I am having a nervous breakdown? Perhaps this is my mid life crisis? Perhaps I need a mental health assessment? I have had ample opportunity to drink champagne and lay in bed until all hours, and I decide to clean my innards, lose some weight and be in bed watching a movie every night by 8pm. I'm halfway there now and I'm not turning back. One more week to go and my body will not only be a domestic goddess but also a temple/shrine and much lighter. 

Next, the house. With two sons and a husband who are allergic to helping out, the house is probably never going to grace the pages of Vogue Living. Still I wanted to clean and freshen and maybe redecorate before the family returns to mess it up again. First I tidied up. Then did a few loads of washing. Then I went out and bought new bedding and cushions to decorate Toms room, and it is fantastic! A tidy up and fresh rug on Jacks floor and a complete clean up of my room. 

Then I saw the floors and realised they needed a massive shampoo and vacuum. Being the long weekend I am unlikely to arrange a vacuum shampoo person to come out, but at least I could do a major vacuum. My beautiful 10yr old Dyson just wasn't up to it. My cheap little KMart special normally reserved for the car moaned and cracked until it gave up. It was time to buy a new machine. 

I love the Dyson because they are funky and colourful and somehow seem to make the chore a bit easier to bear. They are the Apple of Vacuum cleaners. So I went into the city and bought myself a small hand held thing to tie me over until I could justify buying the big monster of a machine (over $1000 which really cannot be justified when your family are having a lovely holiday). 

I couldn't wait to get the thing home and vacuum my little heart out all afternoon. I tore open the box and put the bits together (technical terms for vacuum cleaner appendages), and vacuumed a couch just to get the feel of it. What had been a dirty greyish couch was actually bright red underneath! (see how these things pay for themselves!). But then it stopped. I tried a different attachment, I emptied the barrel thing and checked the filter. They all seemed fine. The light was green! Green is good right? 

Before crying, I called the Dyson helpline and explained my disaster to the lovely lady (Sharon) on the other end. Without laughing, she explained to me that I might want to charge the vacuum before using it again, because its a hand held with a battery. She also explained there are instructions in picture form in the box as well. If I were her I probably would have called me an idiot, but she didn't. 

Sometimes I wonder how I got this far in life. 

Feminine Hygiene Products.

Now here's the challenge. How do I talk about this experience openly without anyone squirming in their seat. Prepare yourself readers, its going to get slightly ugly. 

Let's start by saying every second person on this planet bleeds, or has bled, on a monthly basis for most of their adult lives. Nearly every female you know has gone through this, or is going through this or will go through this. We're talking menstruation, periods, monthly visitors - that unforgivable and unmentionable subject, less accepted than talking about bowel movements. True.  Sit in a backpackers cafe and eavesdrop for an hour. 

This week after a particularly strenuous pilates class, I needed to make a purchase of feminine hygiene (FH) products. They call them this even though I know a lot of unfeminine women who use them.  I couldn't be bothered trekking up the hill to the expensive pharmacy. Remember this was just after pilates, and I had already worked my abs and gluts. There was a small little convenience store where we had parked, and despite the noisy and offensive sparkling lights around the door, I took my chances. After all, I was in Kings Cross and this kind of decor is considered normal. 

I immediately located the FH products so walked over and found my preference from a very generous choice. I placed my package on the counter and waited for the young male attendant to serve me. Why is it that whenever I need to buy these things, I always get served by young men? I'm in my forties and you would think this act could go without incident by my age. No such luck. The young man sneered as he picked up the packet to scan it in. It wasn't smothered in dog poo, but it may as well have been. I also asked about Panadol. He grunted toward the shelf stacked with pain killers and I returned with Nurofen. The Zavance label for fast acting pain relief. Why would anyone choose the slow acting variety? Plus, they didn't have the period pain variety so Zavance it was. 

My man, lets call him Nasif  because that's what it said on his name tag, then asked me why everyone asks for Panadol but then come back with Nurofen? I told him I wasn't in marketing. I had no idea and I didn't really care, I really just wanted to pay and get out. He looked up at the ceiling for an answer - nothing but peeling paint up there, buddy. 

He then picked up my packet of FH products and looked at them again. He took a long hard and thoughtful look at my little package and asked me why all the women who buy FH packets also buy pain killers at the same time? 

"Oh I don't know, perhaps it has something to do with period pain". 

The mere mention of the P word (not pain) made him glow a very deep red and he couldn't take my money fast enough. 

Male partners take note: save your woman the embarrassment of this customer service experience and offer to buy them for her. In advance. With chocolate. 

Male shop attendants take note: we don't want to discuss it any more than you do. Serve, give us change, and a sympathy smile. 

Oh, and a block of cadbury chocolates would also be appreciated. 

Making the call......

There are certain organisations I try to avoid contact with because I know that as soon as I make the phone call, it will require hours of therapy afterwards. At the very least a debrief to vent.  

Without mentioning the various companies, think tax, banking, superannuation, public healthcare and family benefit organisations. Makes you shudder at the thought of the phone call doesn’t it. If I ever find myself in need of making a call to these companies, I prepare myself well in advance with a bathroom visit, a glass of water and a comfy cushion.

As I am currently working as a contractor I had to supply various details to my new company including my superannuation number. This can be easily found on a piece of paper somewhere in my house if I had a few hours to spare or the inclination to search, and I could also call my old company and ask the friendly ladies in payroll for it. Or I could call the company which seemed the most logical thing to do. I procrastinated on this one because the thought of spending an hour on the phone listening to Enya was not an attractive one, but it was a nicer thought than begging the payroll ladies.

As it turns out, there was no pain in this phone call at all!

Not only was my call answered within 2 minutes by a real person (yes, they do exist), she was friendly, polite and able to help me. She didn’t make me feel like a burden to her day and there was no Enya on the hold music. Her language was positive and I could tell she was smiling while talking to me.

Thank you Cathy from BT Financial for restoring my faith in customer service in financial institutions.

Flying High with a Smile

When I was young, I wanted to be an air hostess. I saw the glamour in the make-up and uniforms, the extensive travel opportunities and a nice long term career opportunity for a woman.

In the past decade I have averaged 20 flights per year both domestic and international. That’s a decent amount of time spend above clouds watching the glamour, and establishing that it’s much harder than I thought; smiling while serving a glass of bubbles at 30,000 feet suddenly did not look like fun. Throw in a drunken arrogant passenger, and it all turns into a nightmare.

On a recent trip from Sydney to Melbourne, I was in awe of the male cabin steward who had been dished up multiple grumpy customers in one flight.

After making his well articulated announcements (with a smile), he walked up the aisle and noticed me wedged between two enormous men. I’m not a frail figure myself, but in between these guys, I was looking deathly anorexic. After take off, he came to my seat and offered me a place in business class which was empty. I’m not sure if that’s allowed, so I wont mention his name, or the airline for fear he may join the unemployment queue with me. Lets call him Jim.

On arrival into Melbourne, two business men reached up for their cabin luggage which were two huge orange boxes (Hermes no less) that had filled up the entire space. Jim assisted them in getting the boxes down, much to the angst of another male passenger.

Once most of the passengers alighted, the man proceeded to vent to Jim about the airline allowing people with excess cabin baggage on board without checking. He went into a tirade (I remained on board for the show) and was apoplectic with rage after a few minutes. His face was red and he was panting, I think there may have also been steam coming off his head. He started making threats of never flying that airline again and was going to use every form of media (social and otherwise) to talk badly about the airline.

Jim handled this beautifully. His body language was open, he looked the man in the face and used nods to acknowledge the mans complaints.

He allowed the man to vent. He didn’t try to butt in or stop in (there would be no use), and after the man had provided a suitable pause Jim spoke in calm tones.

Jim firstly acknowledged the mans concerns and thanked him for expressing them. Without being condescending, he then went on to explain the airline guidelines for cabin baggage and that the boxes were indeed the right size. He confirmed the boxes had been checked by airline.

He apologised to the man that as a passenger his experience was not favourable, it was obvious that Jim was very good at his job and was very loyal to the airline. I was thrilled that he didn’t fall into the trap of agreeing with the complaining customer.

Being an air hostess is “in your face” customer service in difficult conditions for a lengthy shift. Thankfully I reconsidered my career choice before experiencing this first hand.

Corporate Street Begging

Here is a personal challenge I throw out to everyone.

Walk down Pitt Street Mall (Sydney) on any given weekday between the hours of 10am and 5pm: avoid a backpacking hawker trying to sell you a fantastic deal in hair pampering packages.

I loathe the street “corporate” beggars trying to sell me a monthly donation to a worthy cause. It’s not that I don’t agree with the causes, I just hate being aggressively sold to.

This is not exclusive to Pitt St mall, many charity organisations are now resorting to using backpackers as street marketers on a commission base salary. I have no idea of the success rate, the training or the commission - and would love to get some insight into this. (anyone?)

Today I was on a mission, I only needed a couple of things from my local supermarket and had a firm plan on my attack: Walk into the store, buy my vine ripened tomatoes and walk out. Mission accomplished.

At the entrance were three charity branded polo-shirted women smiling and waiting to pounce.

Once eye contact had been made, it was obvious that I was going to be the target of an alpha-female backpacker with pen and clipboard.

“Before you say no......” she screamed from 5 metres away. I said “No” and kept walking.

In customer service, language (body language included) is crucial. Her mistake was using negative language. Before I even had a chance to speak, she had already told me that I’d said “no”.

When training my team of customer service executives, I was very keen on ensuring the language used was always positive with the aim in every phone call, “getting to yes”. My team were not salespeople, they were contact centre staff in emergency assistance, however the message was the same. The customer on the other end of the line had called for something, and my team were there to provide it. When it wasn’t possible to deliver what the customer wanted, the goal was to influence the customer to accepting what could be done for them. Even if it was nothing more than someone to listen to them.

As a customer and a manager, the words I never wanted to hear were:
- Unfortunately
- Impossible
- Cant
- No

I doubt I would have made a donation today to the corporate beggar regardless of the language she used, but it would have been a less aggressive “NO” back at her if the approach was laced with a positive sentiment.

Coffee Culture

When you find yourself a decent little coffee shop, you stick to it. You commit to income sharing so that it never ever closes. You don’t tell too many people about it, for fear it may become too popular and you lose your place in the queue (and here I am blogging about it!).

I found such a place conveniently located around the corner from my home.

The Little Marionette Cafe is run by a group of gorgeous young people who have a passion for coffee and great service. What first drew me to this coffee shop was not just the convenience of location but also the atmosphere. The tables are a little small, but an inner city terrace doesn’t allow for a dining tables and there is a lovely little room hidden behind a secret bookshelf that I have come to claim as my own. Chesterfield couches are guarded by kitsch deer heads and vintage mirrors.  

I’m bold enough to say its the best coffee in Sydney, I come here every morning for my fix. They roast their own, so while you drink you also get the heady aromas of Guatemalan, Ethiopian and every other type of great coffee you can think of.

What makes this place truly amazing is the staff. Walking in and finding a seat, you are greeted with friendly, funny and genuinely interested people. They remember your name, your coffee of choice and always ask about your day. In the 18months I have been coming here (every morning except on my travel trips) I have never encountered a rude tone.

This is a novelty in Sydney coffee shops. I think I will continue to income share until my retirement.


http://www.lilm.com.au/

Chocky Wocky - Wonky Service

Chocolate is my favourite pastime. I just love it. Smelling it, eating it, licking it, talking about it. I consider myself to be a kind of chocolate connoisseur. You could even say I am a chocolate snob, as much as I am a coffee snob. I can't do bad chocolate.

I live in Sydney, which means great chocolate is limited to a select few places. And then it gets discovered by the mainstream and becomes all too commercial with a million outlets. The special-ness of it goes.  You know which one I'm talking about right? The chocolate shop that started in a cute little terrace in Paddington and ended up in every Westfield's across Australia. Max Brennar's, the bald man. Although its on every corner, I still can't resist it every now and then for a warm huggie-mug treat.

Today being the day after boxing day and still a public holiday, our little family decided to go for a walk with the dog and treat ourselves to a hot chocolate in Newtown for our efforts. Despite being in the peak of summer, Sydney has not delivered the balmy weather of my childhood, and a hot chocolate is a very nice afternoon treat.

Son and I went in and found a neat little corner on the bar bench to settle. I got up to order and waited at the counter to be served. I suspect the man behind the counter was the manager, because out of the three he was the only one with a sense of authority about him. The other two were busy handing out coffees and generally looking busy. One of them came up beside me at the counter to grab the hot chocolates for a table and instead of asking me politely to move aside, he grunted "MOVE".

Excuse me? (yes, thats the correct term to use when you're asking someone to move out of the way).

The manager looked up and realised I wanted to order (thats why I normally stand at a counter), and nodded his head my way to motion for me to let him know what I wanted. At this point, I probably should have left, but the thought of disappointing my son after promising him a MB treat was too much. I handed over my money and took my number back to the bar bench to wait.

I twitted out my experience. And waited.

And waited.

When our hot chocolate huggie mugs were made, the manager decided to hand them over the top of the high bar bench, rather than walk them around to my young son and myself. I had to grab mine quickly and put it down to grab my sons before a boiling hot chocolate was poured all over him.

While son and I sat and dranked our huggie mugs (and yes, they were delicious) a few young local kids walked into the store and to the chocolate bar area where they were being very obvious about grabbing a few and pocketing them before walking out.

I did think of letting the manager know..... and then decided justice had been served.