You ever have one of those friends who refuses to text you?
Like they view the concept of texting as so repugnant they’ll completely refuse to do it at all and will call you over and over again just to tell you something that could have easily fit into 140 characters?
I hate people that don’t text because I absolutely hate talking on the telephone.
I am that asshole person that hates texting in reverse.
Still, I’ll call people sometimes if I’m in the mood. This happens maybe twice a month.
The only person I predominately call on a regular basis is my Mom, and that’s just because my lame ass Dad refuses to get a better cell phone and my Mom isn’t going to type on one of those weak 1994 keyboards where you have to press every number 3 times to get the letter you want. If my Mom could text, I’d text her ass every day. Probably weird shit. I like to make my Mom roll her eyes.
I have this one friend who hates texting. She’ll text me back and forth for a little while and then get on her high horse and text me “pick up your phone” followed by, of course, calling me. I almost never pick up because if I wanted to talk to her on the fucking phone I would have called her in the first place. Here’s the thing about texting vs. calling: texting can be done anywhere. I can text in line at the post office, at the supermarket, in my laundry room, and in my bathtub. I could hypothetically talk on my phone at all of those places, but then I would be The Asshole on My Phone. I hate Assholes on Their Phones in public places. I used to work at a tanning salon and people would come up to the counter on their phones and try to “whisper talk” to me. That’s when you come up to someone and try to talk to them in whispers as a side conversation to your other, more important phone conversation. This never works, by the way, unless you’re simply asking a yes or no question like “are you open?” or “may I have a pack of matches?”. And, even if it’s a yes or no question, you’re still a fucking asshole for talking on your phone in public.
Talking on your cell phone in public is for doctors, anyone working on call, and emergencies.
Talking on the phone is shitty because 1. cell phone sound quality is still from 1987 and 2. I hate sounding like an idiot. Having to go “what? what? what?” over and over again because I can’t hear what someone is saying because they’re in wind/around loud vehicles/in a crowded public place/et-fucking-cetera is seriously in my top 10 Most Hated Things list. It’s humiliating. You’re making me feel like a deaf moron. Also, chances of me being able to understand you even in a quiet place are pretty slim. If you want to hear my goddamn voice so bad, just make a date with me. I might as well look you in the eye when I verbally berate you.
In other news, last week Stefan and I ordered two almost $20 salads from a shithole called Wokcano. Wokcano is a chain Asian restaurant that serves pretty mediocre food from almost every Asian country (they have Thai noodles, sushi, chow mein, you get the drift) and is woefully overpriced. The selling point? They’re open until 2 a.m. and deliver. No one in the world goes to Wokcano for the quality-they go because they’re desperate.
So Stefan and I were sitting around at midnight one day last week and we wanted salads. Fancy ones with crab and lobster and Napa grapes and what-the-fuck ever. We called Wokcano and ordered some smut, which arrived about an hour later (insanity) and upon opening our little bad for the planet plastic shells, discovered both of our salads were missing shit. Specifically, hearts of palm on one and cranberries and bleu cheese on the other. At risk of sounding like someone who complains a lot (I do, but hear me out) the only reason we ordered one of the salads is because I’m obsessed with hearts of palm. They’re swamp cabbages, people! Delicious. And who skimps ingredients on TWO salads going to the same place? One might go unnoticed, but two? Come on. Once I discover these missing key ingredients, I demanded Stefan call those fucks and fight for retribution. An apology, a credit, or a refund. This is what I demanded. So Stefan calls and thus begins our tale.
He tells the hostess what happened. She is shocked and places him on hold to go to the kitchen to see what happened. He waits. I wait. He’s then transferred to someone else who has no idea what he’s talking about. He is placed back on hold. We wait. The lady comes back and tells us to keep holding. We do. She comes back. Says the kitchen ran out of some of the ingredients and failed to tell the front of the house. She is sorry. She can’t believe it happened. Stefan is very nice. She asks if refunding one of the salads would be sufficient. He says sure. She places us on hold. We wait. We wait more. More waiting. At this junction in time, this has taken about 20 minutes, which means our midnight salad hankering has turned into an hour and a half long nightmare. It’s 1:30 a.m. I am getting mad.
The woman comes back and says they can’t process the credit because their machine is fucking up. She promises to call Stefan back tomorrow and give him a confirmation of the refund. She apologizes but promises she’ll call the next day since she’s opening. Stefan accepts. I get mad. This is a lie and I know that whore isn’t going to call him tomorrow. I pout and go to bed.
The next day, no one calls from Fuckano. Surprise. I yell at Stefan undeservedly. He is sad. I get mad but do nothing. The next day I write Wokcano’s corporate office with the story. I write the email in a very adult, sympathetic manner. I ask for someone to contact Stefan immediately via phone. I provide all contact information. No one contacts him.
Today I yelled at Stefan undeservedly again to call Wokcano. I refuse to let this rest. This is my new thing now that I’m 30: I’m not wasting even a single dollar on something that doesn’t deserve it, because I work too hard for my money and the world is run by crooks and thieves who only get away with their crooking and thieving because too many people are too lazy or apathetic to tell them no, sir, you cannot rob me of my hard earned money. I won’t let you. For example, a bought a $1.50 plus tax foot scrubber thingie at Big Lots (aka the Land of Chinese Products aka my favorite place in the world) that fell apart the first time I used it. 20’s Nicole would have tossed it in the trash and been done with it. 30’s Nicole is going to take it back to Big Lots and demand retribution. You can’t get away with this, China! My feet need to be scrubbed!
So Stefan calls Wokcano today. He explains the situation to the manager. He is placed on hold. The manager asks him for the story again. He tells it. Hold again. Manager comes back: he can’t find a record of our order. I overhear this nonsense and come hoofing over like an angry troll to snatch the phone out of Stefan’s hands to tell the manager I’m going to skull fuck his wife and curse his children if he doesn’t fix this and refund the fucking wilted salad of sadness right this goddamn minute. Stefan tells me to sit the fuck down. I do it. The manager tells Stefan he has to contact the “corporate office” to do a transaction search and he’ll “email Stefan within a week”. Stefan accepts, seeing no other option. His eyes are sad. I make a butthole face and listen as Stefan repeats his email address SEVEN TIMES to the manager on the phone.
This is not Stefan’s email address but this is what I overheard.
“My email address is FUCKWOKCANO@GMAIL.ORG. Let me spell that for you. Eff yoo see kay double yoo oh kay see blah blah at gmail dot org”.
“Okay, I’ve got ORANGESANDDICKS AT FUCKMAIL.COM is that correct, sir?”
“No, that’s not correct. It’s FUCKWOKCANO at GMAIL.ORG. Should I spell that?”
“EFF YOO SEE ETC”
“Okay sir that’s DICKWOKCANO@GMAIL.ORG?”
“NO, JESUS CHRIST”
This goes on 5 more times. There’s an “E” in Stefan’s email address and he had to come up with several different words for the dude to get it. Because “e for elephant” apparently means nothing to the cocksucking whoremongers at Wokcano.
After this debacle, I took a shower to calm down. Also, because I was dirty. In the shower I decided I was going to call the corporate office myself. Fuck these dirt squirrels, right?! They’re just trying to put us off so they can keep our sweet $20! I could buy a used, high quality Coach purse for $20! I could buy 4 boxes of Haagen Dazs ice cream popsicles for $20! I could buy a box of shit to send to Wokcano for $20!
I get online and discover there is no contact number for Wokcano’s corporate office online. RACKET! FUCKING RACKET! I go off about communists for a while and call Wokcano’s Downtown location again and get the corporate number. Thanks, Tammy. I owe you one. Tomorrow, I’m going to call those slugs and demand retribution. Expect to hear about it later.
The Wokcano experience mirrors a situation we had last week with another restaurant we order from frequently. This place is delicious and reasonably priced so I’ve never had an issue with them. They’re not an excuse for a restaurant you only order from because nothing else is open after 11 p.m. in DTLA. You order because they’re tasty. Anyhoo, I ordered a green salad, right, which was supposed to come with “homemade cumin/cilantro” dressing. In other words, I only ordered the salad for the dressing. It shows up and what do I get? I bucket of Kraft Italian salad dressing, the kind of shit that has the consistency of what drips off of Ridley Scott aliens and tastes like what dog assholes smell like. Also, our delicious samosas were burnt. Outraged, I demanded Stefan call those bastards and complain. Stefan told me to EABOD. I refused. He called and asked them to send over the correct dressing. They said it wasn’t available anymore and then argued with him for 10 minutes while he tried valiantly to get his woman a resolution. Eventually, they sent someone over with new samosas and a refund for the salad, although of course they wanted the salad and old samosas back. What a bunch of cocksmokers. Wouldn’t you look at how often we order and say to yourself THESE CUSTOMERS ARE LOYAL AND WOULDN’T BE COMPLAINING WITHOUT MERIT before you sit and argue with someone for 10 minutes? Or how about understanding WHAT YOU ADVERTISE IS WHAT CUSTOMERS EXPECT TO GET and offering an apology and a refund or credit without any badgering? Oh shit, that’s right, that is impossible. So is simply alerting the customer when they order that what is advertised isn’t what they’re going to get.
Anyway, I have to go shove myself full of pizza right now and watch Big Love, so thanks for listening. And remember: defend your dollars!
Nicole L. Sterner