Monday, August 6, 2012

THE DEALERSHIP (PART 1)

As you all know, we have a car.  It's cute.  It's used.  Some things are broken on it.  So commutergirl took it to the dealership last Saturday to give it some TLC.  Among other things, we needed a new clicker and extra key.  Hence, the dealership.

Commutergirl, technologically savvy girl that she is, made an online appointment with the dealership beforehand.  She showed up at the time she had said she would show up.  She never did find any actual place to show up at.  No front desk, no receptionist, no signs indicating the removed presence of a front desk, or receptionist, or fish tank, or anything else associated with arriving at a dealership and knowing what the bucket you're doing.  She finally resorted to accosting employees in the hall and asking them for directions.  They mainly gave her directions to other employees, who gave her directions to other employees, etc.

Finally she did get someone to give her some actual directions; the sensation was much like administering cool, clear water to a parched throat that has been out in the wilderness for many hours.  She even, after several hours, and several mysterious "miscellaneous" and "service" charges, managed to get out of there with what she wanted to have done done.  Much frustrated, but feeling oddly triumphant, she set out for home, to recount the dreary tale to my attentive ears.  A bad experience, but over soon enough, right?

The next day she got an email from the dealers:

"We're sorry we missed you yesterday . . ."

which sparked a wrathful outcry from her such that I heard it all the way across the apartment.  Not that our apartment is that big, mind you, but still: wrath.

My question is: if you're smart enough to correctly interpret an online signup, and you're smart enough to send someone an email about it the next day, are you also smart enough to manifest some sort of corporeal presence in our four-dimensional world?  Because you might as well have been in another dimension for all the trouble my wife went to to not find you.

And people try to tell me UTA gives them the runaround . . .

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