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Petco Loses a Customer over $5

Rick Copper — Wed, 11 Jan 2012 13:25:28 +0000

Oh Petco, you lost a customer over five dollars. Five American dollars.

Been a customer of Petco’s since Honey (see totally adorable photo) was a tiny pup, so a little more than five years. Most times I’ll go there for toys, rawhide chews, leashes etcetera. They have a great selection and I can always find what I need. Never have had any need for Honey and Katecustomer service as the store is pretty much self-serve.

Until now.

What I needed was merely decent customer service, talk to a manager who would realize holding back five dollars from a loyal customer isn’t exactly a wise decision. Hell, there’s a PetSmart right down the street.

Allow me to repeat this – Decent. Customer. Service.

Nothing unreasonable really. I had built up a lot of “Petco Points” simply by going to this store in the beginning of December to buy $300 worth of dog and cat food, clippers, shampoos, etc to donate to the Huntley, Illinois Animal Shelter - Animal House Shelter. It’s a no-kill shelter and a very worthy cause.

Ergo, I receive in my e-mail three $5 off coupons (yes, do the math 5% off per $100 spent). Naturally, they had a limited time stamp on them. Set to expire in less than three weeks, they contained simple instructions

“print these out and bring them in to get savings on what you need for your pet”

Something akin to that. I don’t have the email anymore.

So I printed them out. Did it in blazing color too. Problem was, the way Petco had set up the coupons, only two of them would print out with their UPC code and corresponding number. Knowing full well this could be an issue, I re-printed. Same thing happened.

Prior to walking into the store, I tell Daniel Agee “watch. they won’t accept the third coupon. I’m going to have a hissy fit, run to the reptile section and set everything free.”

Went to the back. Grabbed a 40-pound bag of Iams Large Breed dog food (the green package - as in color, not eco-green, settle down) hoisted it over my shoulder and went to the cashier’s section. I set the bag down, hand over the coupons and explain the situation to the cashier.

As expected, he said he couldn’t do anything about it. Of course he couldn’t. I was a cashier for a while as a youngster, I knew that. No cashier is going to stick their neck out for an unverifiable five-dollar coupon with the possibility of losing their job for it. I wouldn’t… unless I was already quitting.

However, I would have called the manager. He didn’t, so I had to ask. Manager came over. I explained it to her, she sized up the situation and this is what ensued:

“Nope. Nothing I can do about it.”

“Problem is, when you - your company - requests print-outs, this is what could happen.”

“Do you have the email?”

At this point, I pull out my Sprint-issued Samsung Android smartphone and start searching, slowly searching. My theory is if enough people get behind me in line, I win. Pressure on her, like ocean water on a deep sea diver, will cause her to swim towards the light, so to speak, before suffering from the retail bends. Unfortunately, it was mid-afternoon and not enough customers were in the store for this plan to work.

“looks like I don’t. This system is archaic. If you - your company - would have simply said to bring in the email on your smart phone OR print out the coupons…”

“I can’t do a thing about it without the coupon code.”

“sure there is. look up my history with my Petco cardmember code. Not like I didn’t earn it.”

“Sir, I have to turn all of these coupons in at the end of the day. If there is no verification this is a coupon, we lose the five dollars.”

“it’s five dollars.”

“Can’t do it. Sorry.”

“It’s okay. This will simply be the last time I am in here.”

I paid, got the ten dollars off, and left. I thought about releasing the reptiles, but the ferrets were between me and terrariums. Ferrets are god-awful smelly creatures difficult to catch and yes, it would have been hilarious. However, jail time, as brief as it may have been, was not on yesterday’s agenda. Plus, all the ferrets and reptiles had suffered enough already… and snakes give me the heebie-jeebies.

Buh-bye Petco. Hello, PetSmart.

There's Always a Reason

Rick Copper — Wed, 28 Dec 2011 13:27:27 +0000

It's chaotic, this life. You'll immediately recognize why some things happen; others you won't recognize for a long time what pattern was created, how the jagged edges fit right into your own puzzle.

Case in point. Susan was a beautiful blonde Scandinavian girl (as if her heritage had anything to do with it) whom I knew in college. We worked together. UC-Davis bookstore. She was a year ahead of me.

As her graduation date approached, she had a lot to do. Finals. Finish papers. Finish projects. Finalize her living arrangements, nothing more intensive than most other seniors were going through.

We were upstairs in the bookstore office. I was sitting, going over some sort of data needed to get a marketing job done for the late spring push. flickr. from prayitno. much cooler than 20 years ago.Susan was telling me all about what needed to get done before graduation.

She started spinning.

Her head tilted back, eyes to the ceiling, arms spread out as if an albatross catching a thermal off the Pacific. Spinning faster, she collapsed. Before I could get around the desk to catch her, she had landed on her back on the linoleum floor. To this day I can still hear her head hit.

Blood started pouring out of the back of her head, as if someone had dropped a glass bottle of Mrs. Butterworth's pancake syrup. People started dialing emergency. People left to get a mop. People left period. Kneeling down, I gently put my left hand under her head, my right on her forehead and pressed to quell her blood flow. I held it as someone else knelt down to hold her shoulders. We stayed in this position until paramedics arrived.

Once they got her on the gurney, everyone went back to what they were doing. I stayed on the floor with paper towels trying to soak up and wipe off Susan's dark sticky blood. Someone, Dotty I recall, saw me and knew I was in shock. I was fine, but not ready to reassemble myself for my own reality. I was still in Susan's.

Paramedics said what I did most likely saved her life. I think they said it to make me feel better, but I don't know for sure. I know at the end of work and classes I bought a dozen red roses and went to see Susan at the hospital. She was all bandaged up, but awake. She thanked me for the flowers, her mother thanked me as did her friend Diane.

I saw Susan one more time about a week later right before graduation. She came in to say goodbye, wearing a smart-looking hat like a floppy beret. Neurologists had found nothing, explaining it was stress and some people's brains just handle it differently than others. Synapses out of control. She thanked me again. We hugged. I never saw her after that.

This isn’t meant for a drift into melancholy. Throughout your life, people float in and out. It's as if we have our own personal dandelion. These seeds, a single dandelion's seeds, hundred or so popping off and flying about? Those are your people, connections coming in and out.

Some will be your age, going through identical life patterns and situations. Having babies at the same time, starting careers, moving up corporate ladders, coming back down. Others won't. They'll be older… or younger. But somehow, some way, there will need to remain in your life.

They stick. They stay. Not as if they are stalkers designed to follow your every move. No, they burrow their way into the soil of your soul, finding a place to grow so they become a part of you.

These are the ones who matter. These are the ones who shape you; change you; twist you; turn you toward growth into a better, well-rounded complete person.

Christmas Musica

Rick Copper — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 21:42:00 +0000

Christmas music certainly puts people in the mood. On occasion, it’s nice to hear the melodies of some sleigh bell patter directing us to good will toward men, softly pat a baby on its head, be nice to the Christmas donkey, feed your local reindeer, etc.

On occasion.

I don’t need to hear it everywhere I go. Whether vocals, no-vocals, Muzak – it’s everywhere, virtually inescapable. Department stores. Grocery stores. Hospitals. Coffee shops. Elevators. Radio stations insisting on running the damn stuff 24/7 for six weeks.

Makes me nauseous.

I like it in selective pieces, when I want it. I am not about getting it forced upon me. This isn’t Cuba damn it, it’s America.

Ergo, it’s not on in my car.

However, I can listen to it every night from 8pm-midnight on WXRT.

It’s rockin’ Christmas. Non-secular tunes Hey, that's not very Christmas-friendly. Yes, I know.designed to make me smile. No listening to The Lord coming down to bless us on this special time of the year when Christ was born even though it was the Romans who designated this time of year as his birth. Ssssssh, please don’t waste your time getting into any argument about this with those blindly ignorant of history – facts are facts. There is a fact Romans decreed this time as allowable to celebrate Christ’s birth. There is no fact about when he was born or the color of his skin.

Whew – threw quite a digression at you there. Back to Christmas music.

My favorite coffee shop, Conscious Cup on Crystal Lake, those crazy nuts who battle against big business, namely the evil empire who cannot be named, play Christmas music from a selection of CDs.

All of them bad. Hate it, but here’s the kicker.

Not. Every. Day.

Today I am listening to a selection of acoustic versions of popular rock songs from various artists. Hell, even Bon Iver is more tolerable than listening to some trashed version of Lennon’s “So this is Christmas.”

It’s nice. No Santa today, no secular or non-secular jing jing jingling.

Thank you, Conscious Cup. Thank you WXRT.

Screw you Menards.

Be Your Best Bob

Rick Copper — Fri, 09 Dec 2011 12:57:29 +0000

Days come when you tend to lose yourself, if only temporary. It’s those times when you think back.

I read a blog the other night, it was poignant. I slammed my keys on it in a day or so ago, hit the previous button above this and you can read it, but for this I’ll focus on where my mind went last night in my sleep.

I thought of Bob.

Wish I could remember his last name, but it doesn’t matter. He was always Bob to me. Bob was my neighbor when I lived in Elmhurst. Bob had lived there for the better part of three decades. I lived there for a decade, four years around Bob.

Bob, if you haven’t guessed, was an older man.

Bob loved my little kids, he loved all little kids.

Bob smiled. A lot.

Bob got cancer – brain cancer. He had an operation. They shaved his head, gave him one hell of a nasty scar. He’d walk around our neighborhood, letting kids touch the scar.

Bob still smiled. A lot.

Bob’s cancer returned, with a vengeance. So he planned. Not for his eminent demise. Not for his funeral.

Bob planned a party.

It was a colossal affair. He rented out a banquet hall. There were members of his family, his friends, Has nothing to do with Bob, but he'd laugh at this, so there.neighbors, about 300 people. We joked as we stood in buffet lines, loading up on antipasto, carved roast beef with horseradish sauce, red jacket rosemary potatoes. You name it, Bob had it there.

Kids ran around, stealing desserts off silver dessert platters, hiding under tablecloths, gobbling up goodies before they were caught. People sat at their tables, introducing or re-introducing each other. For a few hours we laughed.

Bob smiled. A lot.

His son put together a vignette of photos, photos of Bob’s life woven together with music of Bob’s choosing.

Emotional. Enlightening. Funny. Sad. Everything was there.

Bob smiled. A lot.

Bob died soon after. On his face was a smile, as was on all of ours.

Bob lived a life he wanted to live. He lived with honor, distinguishing himself as a leader without ever grabbing the scepter and leading the parade. Wasn’t his style.

Style was his style.

He was human. I’m sure he had his moments of self-doubt, reflections on why it happened to him as he sat in his house or when he was snow-blowing his elderly neighbor’s craggy broken sidewalk. He might have reflected, watching as progress rolled around him. In the midst of teardowns, Bob’s house remained what was – a modest Cape Cod slowly being surrounded by McMansions.

He never showed it. Dignity. Poise. Bravery. There was no single word to encapsulate the wonder of Bob.

So where does this lead? Go ahead and lose yourself, wallow briefly if you must. But over all, be your best Bob.

Redhead Writing

Rick Copper — Tue, 29 Nov 2011 13:44:52 +0000

I’m not going to ride on Redhead’s coattails and pretend my writing skills are to her level. They’re certainly different. She’s, to me, far better at going for the throat with panache than I. Diplomacy as never been a skill I mastered and at this point in my life, I’m not about to dramatically alter my course.

Usually, I read her blogs, get a good chuckle or learn something. She’s a smart one. Yesterday, though, she got to me. Right in the heart. I felt for her.

You can read it here. If you do not read her missives on a consistent basis, I’d recommend it. If this is your first, it’s a damn good one for a jumping-into-the-deep-end cannonball.

Here’s my take.

Facebook is for discovery – old friends, new friends, So stole this from Redhead Writing. Cuff me.business acquaintances, neighbors you may want to know better. It can be for reflection, to spread exciting news, to keep up on what everyone is doing.

Do you have friends who tell you all about their day; what they ate for breakfast; how they lost their car keys; found a quarter in their couch; describe in graphic detail about their dog vomiting; go on about how their God is better than anyone’s God; blah blah blah? It may be “blah” to you, but for them it is important to share. Here’s the kicker.

You. Do. Not. Have. To. Comment.

Hell, you don’t have to see their posts at all. Block them. Eliminate them off your friend list if you choose. However, show some class. I secretly - without comment - eliminated someone who shall remain nameless because they verbally smacked their recent wife the day of their divorce. I knew both of them and thought “shit, that is so crass.” Bam. Gone.

It didn’t help his cause he misspelled “annulment” as “analment,” though. Criminy.

Facebook is not for belittling, humiliation, making comments of a personal nature or write personal attacks. If you choose to attack, do it with love. Attack someone you already know for Christ sake.

I’m really good at it. Sarcasm is a skill I have mastered. But seriously now, I only pick on my cousins, daughter, sister and friends I consider close.

I do consider myself Erika Napoletano’s friend. But, I have never met her in person. Someday I am sure we'll sit down, have a coffee, meet face-to-face. However, for now, I don’t really know her well enough to go after her in such a manner.

Neither do you.

Facebook. Tread lightly.

Ana

Rick Copper — Wed, 23 Nov 2011 14:03:45 +0000

Keep your eyes wide open. Watch your peripherals.

I don’t tell my two kids this because I want them to be alert, wary of strangers. This is not borne out of fear. I want them to be aware.

Sights. Sounds. Surroundings.

You never know what will come, what will impact your life, what will happen if you keep looking at the big picture. Everything around you impacts you one way or the other.

Sitting in Le Caprice, a nice French restaurant in Manhattan with its older sister housed in London. The fare was fine. Expensive, but fine. Guinness was magnificently tepid.

I looked around. Patrons. Wait staff. Hostess. Old. Young. Betwixt.

My waitress, Ana, a fine young woman in her upper 20’s hailing from Moldova. Came here as an employee of an imported wine company. Company had their own store in Manhattan. She was an account executive. Sales. 2009, when the bottom fell out, they closed. Off went her job.

How did I find out all of this? I asked. I talked. We talked. A lot all three times I went into Le Caprice (French for “the underwhelming underperforming domestic sedan”). She was very intriguing, very insightful.

Very frustrated. Wanted to go back to school, get her MBA. But, education costs money, borrowing means debt. Education expense, to her, is ruining America as bright minds get wasted on account of soaring tuition.

We talked more. Deeper. After a few hours of getting to know each other, her understanding my lust for writing, me hers for more education, she came up with this gem.

“You know we can’t commit suicide, you and I. Can’t kill yourself. Your curiosity won’t allow it. Today’s curiosity, tomorrow’s, twenty years from now. You just want to know what in the hell is going to happen. You can use that.”

Genius.

I Gave Up

Rick Copper — Mon, 14 Nov 2011 13:01:28 +0000

Tho other day, I gave up.

Not “gave up” like I’m going to find the nearest train depot, step onto the tracks, spread my arms out like I’m making a snow angel in the air and wait for the 5:15 to carry me to a spiritual world.

Nope.

Gave up on trying to save the world from itself, one cup of coffee, tomato, bagel, slice of devil's food cake or any other foodstuff at a time. Why? The other day in my copperwrite@gmail.com account there was a note from change.org, one of a myriad of “change the world the way you see it” kind of places allegedly doing good by alerting us of bad practices by businesses.

Let it be known this is no disparagement, as they do good. But this note? I won’t go through the whole note, kind of pointless. I am sure they have altruistic goals for their missive, but they decided to attack Trader Joe’s today.

Say what? Trader Joe’s? Not the same wholesome chain of small grocery stores giving us a plethora of opportunities to buy healthy goods without having to sacrifice our youngest child or a nearby virgin? That Trader Joe’s?

Yep. Same one.

What did Trader Joe’s do to get on the same list as British Petroleum? They are selling “slave tomatoes” or tomatoes picked by those who are indentured servants to the tomato-picking trade.

That’s when I gave up. Not like I don’t care about getting fair trade produce or making sure people have the ability to get a fair wage for their working efforts, I believe in both. But, and this is a big but, who is to define a fair wage? No one wants indentured servitude, but we also don’t want five-dollar beefsteak tomatoes. One person may feel $55 an hour is not a fair wage, too low, for a member of United Auto Workers union (that’s their average wage including benefits). Other people may look at it and say “are you kidding? $55 bucks an hour to attached bolts to a chassis?

See what I mean.

I’m going to keep shopping at Trader Joe’s. I probably will not buy tomatoes… only because I grow my own plum tomatoes, blender them and freeze them for sauce. In fact, here’s an amazing recipe for pasta sauce courtesy of Rick Regalado (look him up on Facebook too, he's a hell of a chef).

You can only believe what you want to believe. Line-caught tuna? Sure, I’ll buy it. I can believe it. Bananas cut down by well-fed and well-paid Costa Ricans? Probably not if I can get them as cheap as 39¢ a pound… pr 29¢ each at Trader Joe's (BTW, who doesn't love the option of buying a green, yellow and spotted yellow banana at the same time).

Free-range pig? If you say it, it better be or I’ll toss you, alive, into a sty of starving pigs. Free-range pigs is one of my biggest meat angst issues as pigs are too smart to be treated like they currently are on industrial farms.

So, I gave up. Bon appetit.

My Lunch with Laura Linney

Rick Copper — Fri, 28 Oct 2011 16:04:04 +0000

Yes, I did. Had a fabulous lunch with Laura Linney and her husband Marc. We talked like normal intelligent primates and I didn’t gush as if I was completely enamored with her aura, reciting her acting resume like I was Chris Farley on the Chris Farley Show.

Not as if I didn’t think about it. I did. Surely it would have been a mistake, but my mind did think it would be funny if I spouted “remember when your dad was on the detail of the president, an aged protector haunted by his supposed failure to protect Kennedy? Remember that? That was really cool. Oh, and remember when your half-ass immature brother came to live with you, you were a single mom in a cool house all stressed out and here he was needing to be rescued? Remember when he forgot to pick up your kid at school and then when he did took your kid to a bar to play pool? Remember that? That was cool.”

Naturally, I would have taken it a step further and espoused upon some role she didn’t play, thinking it was her: “remember when you were a single girl who needed a roommate and that Jennifer girl became your roommate but was bat shit crazy and she tried to kill you? Remember that? That was cool.”

Oh don't fret. I didn’t do it. Once I met her, those thoughts of being my normal smart-ass idiot went out the restaurant's back door. Why? Because she really was cool. Both she and her husband were completely normal. There was never a moment in our two hours together where she held any pretense of being her stage and screen persona as a truly gifted actress.

We sat in a fantastic little restaurant just south of Houston Street, Hundred Acres, Hundred Acres. Cell phone photo by Moi.in New York. Laura, Marc and I talked about New York, London, Colorado, the crater of creativity so often found in literature and film where each system is broken due to bean counters and a severe lack of knowledgeable gatekeepers. For two hours we kept it up. Parking in New York. Writing. Wonders of Broadway. Telluride Film Festival and Independent films. Marc gave me a list of films to consider watching while I confessed I had not followed Big C into season two (I will be watching it this weekend in my own personal marathon). We discussed cell phones and which ones she should consider as she’s in need of a new one – I showed her and Marc how swype works on my Android. On we rolled, from how the Chicago Bears under-utilize Jay Cutler’s rolling out talent by forcing him to stay in the pocket (that was Marc and I as Laura remained gracious about it); my invitation to see the Bears in London which I gave up to come to New York (yes Laura, for “little old you”) to her adoration for character actresses (which brought us to briefly talk about Melissa McCarthy and how great she was in Bridesmaids).

Laura, knowing this was my first visit to New York, became determined to help me schedule my Saturday. She whipped out her iPad and, with some direction from Marc, came up with a plan. I followed it religiously and it was amazing, from seeing the De Kooning retrospective at MOMA-NY, walking the High Line Statue of Liberty from High Line - thanks, Marc!to viewing all the activities surrounding Mall lane/drive/whatever and Bethesda Fountain in Central Park.

I took no pictures of them together, her on her own or with me. I asked for no autograph. Didn’t feel any necessity to do so. We talked as if we were long lost friends, or people who were meant to meet, just gathering for a meal and conversation as if we did this on a regular basis. For that I thank both of them.

Coincidence, or lack thereof. Not a believer in coincidence, I discussed how I found out Laura and I shared the same birthday, February 5th (I am older); both of us went to Northwestern for a year; both of use are very creative; both of us love the Pie Hole in Roswell, GA, both of us are women and right-handed, except for me.close-up of Bethesda Fountain, Central Park.

I gave her my first book, Cross Country, a compilation of stories written about photos shot by Daniel Agee (e-book version? click here). What I didn’t tell her, but she’ll know now, is she has the very first book off the press, number 1 of whatever we end up selling.

I also failed to inform her somewhere in this coffee table book of stories is her well-deserved Oscar. Maybe she’s Margherette, the old woman thinking back on raising her children; or Martina in Desert Snake, driving her boyfriend around the High Plains contemplating how she’s going to let him go and live amongst the Saguaros; or Dorata, the psychologist in Clinic Lady pretending to be a cleaning lady in order to help her sister’s boss, a tortured artist who lost his wife and child in an accident. With a twist she could be Mindy, the candy store worker in Candy Croc, changing her to be a woman forced to move back in with her parents; or Bernadice, the lovely ingénue coming back home to spend time with her life-long love as they watch meteorites falling beyond their lake in Spitting.

It’s in here, I can feel it.

Death of Borders

Rick Copper — Thu, 22 Sep 2011 16:24:39 +0000

Can’t take it too hard. Had no option to save the chain. Not bitter. Not angry. Sad. Really sad.

They tried. Rewards program was pretty solid. Jumped the shark a bit with the Rewards Plus – don’t ever set up a system requiring customers to “pay in” first. Your reward, dear consumer retail chain, is for me to spend money in your store on goods in the first place. Let’s try to remember that.

flikr. creative commons licensed content.

Where did they go wrong?

Didn’t make their customers feel special enough. Needed their own Nook, Kindle, universal e-book application. Borders spent too much time dipping their toes into e-book waters before plunging in and their desperate late plunge was a silly half-ass dive into a very shallow end. Others (Barnes & Noble) cannonballed into the deep end and did it early.

Borders was reticent in embracing e-books. Why?

Real estate – overextended real estate. Corporate suits hand-wringing over long term leases on a short term future killed them.

Yes, I am sad. Still sad. However, demise of Borders is not the death knell of the bookstore. But caution. Without a change in the way publishing companies do business with bookstores, the death of Borders is certainly a bell pealing.

My books? No publisher without a hard shove into e-books. Simple as that. Amazon, I’ll be e-mailing you soon, sweetheart. Lulu, you already have my number.

Fargo Ribfest

Rick Copper — Mon, 27 Jun 2011 00:03:27 +0000

A three-day affair, although I cannot figure out why, as two days would have sufficed, Fargo Ribfest enthralled those used to more earthly entertainment such as greased pig-catching contests. I am confident catching a greased pig is difficult. Having never attempted it, I feel after Fargo Ribfest perhaps I ought to do so. At least a greased pig has a fighting chance.

I have been to many ribfests. Most of them will have a cornucopia bursting forth with rib entries from all corners of the United States, vying for a cash prize and the right to call their eats champion. These contestants travel all summer from fest to fest, venue to venue, state fair to state fair, all for the love of good ribs and great sauce. Somehow I think those used to doing the ribfest circuit either forgot Fargo conducts one or felt the trip that far north wasn't worth the effort. I side with the latter.

Dang those are dirty hands. Yes, my stomach was well aware of it.

Seven contestants competed to be Fargo's finest. Yes, seven. Naperville Ribfest in Illinois has at least twice that if not three times. With seven, you'll always place in the top ten. However, I have a feeling the cash prize is not worth the travel or panache of being declared the best of Fargo Ribfest.

Yet Daniel Agee and I went to the Fargodome parking lot and tried to blend in with the throng. Our one day to go was a fine Saturday. The weather was perfect, mid 70s with a slight breeze coming in from the west off North Dakota State University's domesticated animal facilities. We dined on pulled pork, ribs and even had some homemade potato chips. No beer though. While the event was sponsored by Budweiser, the thought of coughing up $5.50 for a beer when we had a twelve pack of Sam Adams chilling in our hotel refrigerator was not appealing.

Neither were the chips. We ate them, but later realized our stomachs were not collectively groaning due to grease, but to the hands of our "chef." We were saved by one-two-three combination of a nearby cigar bar; a nap and later on Buffalo Wild Wings. God Bless America.