Ruminating Slav

Fed up

fed up
Originally uploaded by *Karo*.

For the first time in my life, I wish I were a big-time fancy blogger. Because then my MBP post would have been dugg or some shit, and Steve Jobs' minions would be falling over themselves to help a Slav out so I'd stop giving Apple bad e-press. However, I wield no authori-tay whatsoever over the interwebs; I could voice my laptop woes all the live-long day and call Steve Jobs a big, pink monkey's butt and it would make no difference.

As you may have guessed, I am still disgruntled. My laptop is still at the repair center, still listed as on hold, needing more information. Yesterday I talked to a Tier 2 rep who assured me that I should see some progress within 24 hours, but it appears as though she was wrong, wrong, wrong. I'm pretty much out of ideas at this point as to what I can do to get a fully-functioning laptop in my hands.

Update: A few hours ago, in response to my emails and calls, I received a phone call from one Melissa of Apple's executive relations. She assured me that even though the status of my laptop was listed as on hold, constant diagnostic tests were being run on it to try to replicate the problem, which the techs had yet to do. I just hope they realize they need to leave it on for 24 hours or so for the problem to rear its ugly head again after a restart. Anyway, that's neither here nor there, because Melissa assured me that if the laptop was returned to me again unfixed they would "take the next step" which I assume is Applespeak for "replace your gimpy-ass laptop." Now we just have to see how long it takes for me to actually get the laptop back.

After six months, it was time for the Angry Letter

From: Karo
Date: March 21, 2007 5:00:42 PM CDT
To: steve@apple.com
Subject: Extreme dissatisfaction with my MacBook Pro and AppleCare service

To Whom it May Concern:

Please review the following tale of woe regarding a service issue I have with my MacBook Pro with AppleCare (serial Wxxxxxxxxxx). The issue at hand: My MacBook Pro does not go into sleep mode automatically when the lid is closed.

This seemingly innocuous and small problem has yet to be fixed after six months of phone calls to AppleCare and after sending my laptop away for repair. Twice. I have reset a small army's worth of PRAM and PMU. The issue is always "fixed." But it always comes back. I am tired of waking up to a drained battery in the morning, tired of making call after call to AppleCare, and after today's stunning incompetence on the part of Apple's phone support, I am simply fed up.

***

My current service (Dxxxxxxxx) was requested on Wednesday, March 14. My DHL box arrived Friday the 16th, and the laptop was dropped of at the local DHL facility Monday the 19th. Service was requested when it became clear that issue above had not been fixed last time computer had been sent in (dispatch number Dxxxxxxxx) in late February.

I checked the repair status online on the morning of Tuesday the 20th. It said the issue was being diagnosed. At approximately noon the message changed to "on hold -- need information." I assumed if the information was needed from me, I would be contacted. I was not, so the evening of the 20th I called and was told that the information was not needed from me, but from a specialist.

Wednesday the 21st the message remained the same. Around noon I called again. I provided the woman with whom I spoke the serial number, dispatch number, and case number. She entered every number incorrectly. After eventually accessing my file, she told me there was nothing more she could tell me.

I then did research on Apple's web site and found that the "on hold -- need information" message means that additional information is needed from the customer. I call back again. This time I am transferred directly to someone in the dispatch department (why did this not happen the first two times I called?). I am told that the problem is that the technicians can not replicate the problem, which reads as, "computer does not sleep."

(When I requested service on the 14th I repeated over and over again that that is not the issue. The agent on the phone would read back to me, "computer does not sleep" and I would correct her. Multiple times. Yet the issue was still transcribed incorrectly.)

I once again clarify the issue. I repeat, as I have countless times, that I have reset my PRAM and PMU and that the problem goes away, but only temporarily. It always comes back, usually after about 24 hours (although it was two weeks after it was returned to me when I sent it in for service last month). I provided the agent with the thread number in Apple discussions (http://discussions.apple.com/thread.jspa?threadID=636696&tstart=30) which has over 250 replies, all people who have the same problem. I provide the agent with a case and dispatch number of another MacBook Pro that had the same problem -- 74439066 (repair ID D10869804).

Please note that I was never notified via email that additional information was needed from me. In fact, my Apple ID was never linked to this service. If I had not checked the repair status online myself, repeatedly, who knows how long the laptop would have sat there at the service center, waiting for additional information.

It is now three and a half hours later, when I check the status online, the message remains "on hold -- need information."

***

To sum up, here are the problems my MacBook Pro has had since I was apparently foolish enough to order a new product it the day it was announced:

* Power adapter has been replaced. Twice.
* Battery bulged, warped the case, and was replaced.
* A two inch "smear" was visible on the screen against dark backgrounds.
* Corrosion of the topcase resulted in black spotting along the left wristrest.
* Aforementioned warping resulted in separation of topcase from side panel.
* DVD player refused to play all but brand-new, untouched disks. Any smudge or scratch rendered the disk unplayable.
* Lid of laptop would close on its own if positioned at an angle of less than about 40 degrees.

In Apple's defense, all issues were quickly taken care of. All except this one niggling issue that has plagued me for months, ever since the release of 10.4.8 update six months ago. I realize this problem is not a large one; however, a $2000 laptop should work as advertised. A $350 extended warranty should fix any issues promptly. Every time I send the laptop away I am left without the machine I work from home on. Every phone call that I make to AppleCare is time that I cannot get back.

I am not unreasonable; I understand computers will have problems. But so many in the span of just over a year? All I want is my MacBook Pro to work as it should. Please ensure that when it or its replacement arrives back from the service center the machine will go to sleep when the lid is closed and that the problem does not come back.

I have have owned three Apple laptops and one desktop since 1994, and I have worked on Macs in the office since 2000. What a shame it would be if Apple lost me as a customer and an enormous word-of-mouth proponent of its hardware over an issue as trivial as this one.

Sincerely,
Karo

The hair, the ant, and the wardrobe

Baxter and I went downtown this afternoon to have lunch with BK. Because it was such a beautiful day, we wanted to go somewhere that had outdoor seating, so we ended up at Landry's. Here is a picture of our waiter:



Ha ha! Just kidding, interwebs. Our waiter was not Grover. But he may as well have been Grover. At least then we wouldn't have had to listen to the put-upon sighs and the slamming down of the trays. Instead we would have just had to suffer through the two-inch, complete-with-follicle hair in the shrimp and the rancid steak that even BK would not eat. And that means it was bad. BK comes from a long line of sturdy Mississippi stock who believe in serving the same food night after night until it is all gone. People who reserve salad that has been soaking in ladlefuls of dressing for days. People who serve that Thanksgiving ham until it is slimy. (Not that I'm speaking from personal experience, of course.)

Also today, while on a playdate at a local park, Baxter started crying in the middle of the soccer field. I leisurely wandered over to discover he was sitting on an anthill. Good work, mom.

ant bites, originally uploaded by *Karo*.

Buenos noches, Señorita Margarita

Grand Cayman gets two Slavic thumbs up, internets. So lovely and warm, quite unlike Dallas where it snowed yesterday, for crap's sake. This weekend, though, I am leaving Dallas (and husband! and baby!) behind to visit dear Tootie in El Paso. And yes, Giles will be there, in our hearts and on our screen if not in person.

But back to Grand Cayman. I bet you didn't know I used up my annual crying quota on the way there, didja? It was my husband, you see, my husband who made me cry and wail (there may also have been teeth-gnashing) in the middle of DFW airport. My husband, who inexplicably (but yet, so very explicably) forgot his garment bag at home and realized this AT THE TICKET COUNTER, my husband who ended up having to take a later flight, my husband, who leisurely flew his little buns FIRST CLASS to the Caymans while I wrastled one very squirmy toddler all the way there by my lonesome, sans luggage, because by the time BK got his new flights squared away at the ticket counter it was too late to check anything.

This weekend, there will be margaritas, oh yes there will.

Life, she can be ridiculous

What you, the reader, need to know: I bought some iPods as Christmas presents.

1. The Apple web site had a link to click on within my order summary that allowed me to print out and sign a form that would substitute me signing for the package in person. I've been faithfully sticking this paper to my door since Saturday, when the tracking info first listed the package as being out for delivery.

2. Despite listing the package as being out for delivery since Saturday, today was the first time FedEx attempted to deliver it. The driver did not leave the package. The paper was still on my door, next to a door tag the driver stuck there.

3. On the door tag, the driver checked the box for me to sign it and stick it back on the door so he can leave the package tomorrow. Imagine my confusion.

4. I call FedEx. The woman tells me that the package requires a signature. I KNOW. That's why I've been leaving the signed authorization paper on my door for three days. No, no, she says. It must be a signature in person. Why did the driver leave a door tag with instructions for me to sign and stick on the door so he can leave the package tomorrow? She does not know. Can I pick the package up somewhere this evening. No, I cannot.

5. Great.

6. I call Apple to let them know that they shouldn't include the link for the pre-authorization paper since FedEx apparently does not accept it. I explain everything above to the dude. He tappity taps on the keyboard and says, "Good news! I'm showing the package is on the truck and will be delivered today."

7. YOU ARE AN IDIOT.

8. Dude puts me on hold for ten minutes. He comes back telling me he's on the phone with FedEx and re-asks the same questions. He then says he's going to put me on hold for a couple more minutes. Dude then hangs up on me.

Thank god this day is almost over

Brace yourself, internets. The Slav is about to get her rant on.

First off, teething baby. I think that says it all, and consider it a cranktastic backdrop to the yarn I am about to spin.

My Macbook Pro has been acting kind of odd for a few weeks now. Every now and then it would randomly shut down with no advance warning -- just "click," and a black screen. It kept happening more and more frequently, so today I sucked it up during First Nap and called AppleCare, who led me through the standard diagnostic crappity crap, proclaimed the problem most likely fixed, and told me to call back if it happened again. Great, thanks. So totally worth the $250 I paid for the extended warranty.

Then the provost's secretary calls to tell me that I've neglected to turn in my timesheet for this month, so I have to haul myself and Cranky McCrankerson up to Richardson to turn it in, because god forbid we have the ability to file these things electronically.

During Second Nap my computer dies again, so I call back, and after more random shit I am told that the additional RAM I installed a couple of weeks ago must be the culprit, so I am to remove it and that will most likely fix the issue. Small problem, though. I had to take the laptop in to the Apple store to have the RAM installed in the first place, not because I am incapable of installing memory, but because I don't own fucking Tinkerbell's phillips-head screwdriver, which is necessary to get behind the goddamn panel. I'm going to spare you the rant about how the Apple Genius wouldn't just HAND me the screwdriver for five minutes so I could stick the RAM in myself right there at the desk but instead made me wait in the fucking line so Grand Emperor Geeksimillian could scurry into the back room and do it himself.

Anyhoo, Radio Shack is closer than the Apple store, so I drive over there, buy some jeweler's screwdrivers, and come back home only to find that fucking HERCULES, when installing my additional memory, decided that he was going to seal that panel tighter than an old nun's asshole. MY THUMB HAS A BLISTER, people. It's all red and swole and STILL HURTS from the 20 FUCKING MINUTES I spent trying to unscrew these tiny little screws of Satan.

You guessed it, though: I take out the RAM and the computer still shuts down. Awesome. During my THIRD phone call to AppleCare, they took pity on me and bumped me up to Tier 2 service, which you'd think would lessen the moron factor but yeah, not so much. Now I am supposed to loop the hardware test off the install CD for THREE HOURS with the power cord plugged in and wait for it to die. I make it an hour and a half before I pull the plug just for grins because a few weeks ago I'd read something on Gizmodo about a silent recall of early Macbook Pro batteries so I figure what the hell, last resort before they make me reinstall the operating system because you KNOW that's what phone call #4 is going to be about. Hey, guess what? Computer dies in 10 minutes.

At this point I'm so enraged at the AppleCare asswipes that I call the nearest Apple store and just ask if they have the right battery in stock and drive over there, all the while imaging what delights I might have been able to engage in today had I not spent two fucking POINTLESS hours on the phone with AppleCare. When I get to the store I breeze right on by the Genius Bar 'cause, hey, Apple's clearly a little low on the geniuses today, and march right up to the cashier and say I called earlier about a battery. And lo, the gods smile upon me and an Employee Nerd emerges from the back at that very moment with a box and says to the cashier, "Someone called about a battery earlier. Here it is." Now I am all official and call-aheady and no one is going to question me or demand my case number. Sweet!

As the cashier is opening the box to get the new battery out I take out the old one and something prompts me to look at it before I hand it to her and I quite literally shriek in the middle of the North Park Apple store because, internets, this is what I see:



Uh, yeah. That would be my TOTALLY FUCKING WARPED MACBOOK PRO BATTERY.

Hey! Hey, AppleCare! You think maybe that's what was causing my problem? Huh? Huh? Do ya? You think my fucking BULGITY-ASS battery might be causing my computer to shut down every 45 minutes? DO YOU? MAYBE, just MAYBE, instead of having me perform hours of pointless diagnostic test you might have asked me to look at the goddamn battery because apparently I am not the only poor slob to have this problem.

Jesus tittyfucking Christ!

Oh, but wait, internets, just you wait. As I'm marvelling over the sight that is my warped battery with cashier #2, I hear a voice behind me say, "Hey, did your battery bulge out?" I turn around, and there's Mr. SMU College Guy With the Hair and the Clothes, and I'm all, "Yeah! Did yours?!?!" He then embarks on the litany of problems he had with his Macbook Pro, including a non-functioning mousepad button and then the epiphany hits me: "You mean my mousepad button wasn't all tacky recently because I dropped a french fry down in there or something?" NO NO, MY FRIENDS, THAT WAS THE BULGITY-ASS BATTERY. Mr. SMU and I chuckle and admit that we are both idiots for buying a new product the minute it comes out, and I turn back to the cashier, and that's when I see it.

There's my laptop upside-down on the counter. Cashier #1 has put in the new battery for me, only she put the wrong end in first so it's sticking up and obviously not flush with the bottom of the computer. She's just kind of standing there looking at me so I'm all, uh, ok, and go to fix it. However, apparently Miss Thang got all DRIZELLA on my laptop's ass and decided she was just going to MAKE that shit fit, and it's stuck. Ess Tee You See Kay, stuck. At one point cashier #2 is holding my laptop and I'm bracing myself against the counter and pulling on the battery as hard as I can, panting all the while, "It. Doesn't. Go. In. That. Way!" while cashier #2 is yelling in a panicked voice, "Get Alan! Get Alan!"

You think I kid, but I don't.

I think I might have blacked out a little at this point but when I came to the battery was fixed and I ran out of there as fast as my little legs would carry me before another Genius decided to help me out. On the way home I stopped at the liquor store because ... Well, really, people, I don't think I have to explain why. It was there that I noticed a suspicious empty spot in my wallet and spent the next 20 minutes combing every crevice of my car for my missing credit card. I called BK at home and had him dig through the trash to find the Whataburger bag to see if my credit card was in there, 'cause Yours Truly had decided a kid-sized chocolate shake would be a nice treat after the blistered thumb fiasco.

("I'd like a small fry and a kid-sized chocolate shake please."
"A small fry and a what?"
"A kid-sized shake."
"What size?"
"Kid size."
"What size?"
"KID. SIZE.")*

BK returns to the phone to report that his task was "disgusting and fruitless." FAN-FUCKING-TASTIC. Imagining having to spend the night cancelling my credit card and all 6,703 things that get charged to it automatically, I head on over to Whataburger to see if I left it there. And what do you know, there's Mrs. What-Size herself, holding it out for me as I walk in there door. Nice one, What-Size. Nice.

*Whataburger beverages come in kid, small, medium, and large. Kid is 16 ounces. I'm not sure who needs more than 16 ounces of shake, but there you go.

This entry clearly deserves a $5 tip

Sunday night BK and I got a sitter and went out for an XXX adult-only dinner. You know, triple-X, the kind where you get to stay in your seat the whole time instead of making laps around the restaurant jiggling a baby teetering on the brink of a meltdown. The kind where you get to slurp down delicious concontions served in martini glasses and polish off bottles of wine with crazy, jacked-up pricing. You know the kind.

Here's the thing about restaurants in Dallas, though. Texas is big, right? There is no urban squeeze to be felt anywhere. Resturants float in the middle of enormous seas of parking -- acres and acres of parking, as far as the eye can see, ready to accomodate your Hummer, your Expedition, your Suburban (old skool!), whatever your boat on wheels of choice is. Never are you faced with block circling, parallel parking, or walking a half-mile from a dubiously legal spot that you did a desperate u-turn in the middle of the road to get.

HOWEVER. When Dallasites go out on the town, they like to do it up right, and you know what that means: valet parking. I cannot convey the rage this inspires in my little heart, which is engulfed in flames of fury every time I witness this ridiculous pretense, only to rise up from its phoenixy ashes to repeat the process next time I drive by III Forks. WHY, AMERICA? WHY? Why would you pay someone to drive your car to a parking spot 50 FUCKING FEET away from the door? Does that really make you feel fancy? Do you stroll inside and order a cosmopolitan and feel all Carrie Bradshaw because some joker in a uniform saved you from that 30-second hike that would have had you feeling all POOR?

Stupid Dallas.

Do you know who I hate?

I hate those "helpful" people at the store who admonish you, a perfect stranger, to "Watch your purse!" when it's in the shopping cart and you step three feet away to pick an item up off the shelf. Lady, I AM STANDING RIGHT HERE. No one is going to abscond with my goddamn diaper bag. And even if they do, it's still none of your your fucking business. Aight?

A few reasons for shrinking self-respect

My son is sucking my brain cells out through my boobs. (Thought we'd finished with the topic of my boobs, did you? WRONG.) Pre-baby I prided myself on my efficiency, my on-top-of-shitness. Not any more. Just this morning I called BK moaning that the washer was broken, and even held the phone up to it so he could hear the god-awful sound it made when I tried to turn it on. I had the yellow pages out and was about to call a repair person when, thank God, I decided to have one more look at it, and GUESS WHAT. The DOOR was not CLOSED all the way. I think if I had ended up paying someone $80 to tell me that, I would died of mortification.

A couple of hours later Bax was napping so I went to get my library book. Sadly, my reading plans were thwarted when I realized, after searching the house up and down for Anansi Boys, that I left the book at the hair salon Friday when I got my hair did. AWESOME.

I also received a FRAUD ALERT phone call from my credit card company today, and when I called them back I learned that someone stole the new credit card they sent me in the mail (a card I did not request, btw, which seems weird) and has been attempting to rack up thousands of dollars of purchases with it. I'm glad their system flagged it and all, but now I have to get a new card! With a new number! And I just memorized the number on the old one, thanks to lots of post-baby online shopping. Fuck a duck.

I could also tell you about the time I went to get my work computer so I could bring it home for the telecommuting. I put all the peripherals in the stroller basket and promply forgot about them so after I put Baxter in his car seat and collapsed the stroller somewhat ENERGETICALLY, mice and keyboards went flying across the parking lot. But I don't think we need any more examples of what a flake I've become, do you?

The turkey, the dressing, and the walk-in clinic

I don't know about you people, but I am officially tired of Thanksgiving leftovers. What is it about all Thanksgiving recipes that makes the default servings, like, 12? Is that the group size the majority of Americans cook for? Wouldn't it be easier to put together a recipe for, say, six, and then the people who need to feed 12 can just double it and the rest of us won't be stuck eating sweet potato casserole for breakfast three days later?

So! The Stanimal and his wife were here to celebrate Our Sham Friendship With the New World Savages. Also visiting me for the holiday was a 101-degree fever, which wasn't too bothersome except for the whole not being able to sleep because you're constantly drenched in your own sweat thing. We figured it was some random virus that would eventually run its course, but BK, not being hip to the any-information-you-disclose-may-and-will-be-used-against-you mantra which must be applied to the Stanimal and his wife, made the mistake of mentioning it to them. As you can imagine (or maybe you can't, perhaps only I am so lucky), the next two days were full of concerned questioning about how am I feeling and when was the last time I took my temperature and am I sure it's all right to breastfeed with a fever because that doesn't seem right and have I told you about the time I had a fever and it turned out to be E. Coli?

Fuck. Me.

I refused to go to the ER on Thanksgiving because I was not about to sit there and wait four hours while the bleeders and pukers got to go first only to eventually be told to go home and take some Tylenol like a normal person. But then Friday my stepmother, seeing that I wasn't about to budge, ratched it up a notch and started cornering poor BK when I wasn't in the room, trying to get him to talk me into going to the hospital. WTF? Who the hell interacts with other people like this? It's family, woman, not espionage. WE'RE NOT A FUCKING JOHN LE CARRE NOVEL, much as you love to read them. Involving poor BK in this whole farce was the last straw, so I gave up and called the walk-in clinic, was told that the wait was 45 minutes, that I was on the list. Fine. I show up 45 minutes later, after several times refusing my stepmother's helpful suggestion that I take my father with me. HELLO I AM 29 YEARS OLD AND DON'T NEED MY DADDY TO TAKE ME TO THE DOCTOR, YOU CRAZY OLD BAT.

Uh. Sorry, where was I?

Right, so I show up at the clinic at the specified time and even though I am the ONLY PERSON in the waiting room when I get there, I still get to wait 1 1/2 hours to see a goddamn doctor. Then I get to wait an hour more to get blood tests and urine tests that confirm, BELIEVE IT OR NOT, that there is nothing wrong with me and I should just go home and take some Tylenol like a normal person.

Happy holidays, y'all!