Mommy Makes a Stink

Friday, August 13, 2004

Page 15

AT THE SIDEBAR (Column)

Mommy Makes a Stink

By J’AMY PACHECO

Generally speaking, I’m an easy-going person. Those who annoy me usually have no idea they’ve done so. Although I have been known to write an occasional letter of complaint, I most often demonstrate my displeasure with unsatisfactory services by simply avoiding the place where it was experienced.

There is, for example, a fast-food restaurant near the enormous dinosaurs off the 10 Freeway in Cabazon. My little girl loves visiting “Dinny” and “Rex” on the way home from Grandma’s house, so this fast food restaurant would seem the ideal place for me to pick up a soda for the 90-minute ride home.

But after experiencing repeated frustration, like 20-minute waits for a solitary Diet Coke, I declared the place off-limits. We’ll happily spend money on rocks and postcards at the little shop in Dinny’s tummy, but under no circumstances will I spend another dime on road refreshment from that restaurant.

Oddly enough, the restaurant’s management has no idea they’re being boycotted.

Now and then, though, I get worked up enough about something to voice my displeasure. This happened notably last weekend, when my daughter and I made a spontaneous visit to a theme park.

Although aggressive tourists are usually the only things that bother me at theme parks, it was a game that incited the Wrath of Mommy on Sunday.

My little girl loves teddy bears, and when she noticed a claw game filled with them in an arcade, she begged to be allowed to play.

Claw machines are notoriously like gambling—the odds are you’re throwing your money away. But if you put enough money into them, you’re likely to get something out eventually.

That’s been my experience, anyway. But this machine wasn’t about to part with a single teddy bear. Five times, the claw picked up a bear, only to drop it before reaching the “winner’s chute.” After feeding the machine $15, I declared it a cheat and decided to complain.

When the arcade worker came to investigate, he found a sad little boy staring at the dolphin he’d won, but which the machine dropped across the chute in such a position that it couldn’t possibly fall. He opened the machine, gave the little boy his dolphin, and handed my daughter two teddy bears.

“Mom,” she whispered, as she hugged her bears. “I’m glad you made a stink.”

For the record, I didn’t raise my voice. Nor did I raise it when I called a theater from which I bought tickets online a few nights ago.

A friend and I decided to take our girls on a road trip to see “The Princess Diaries 2” in Hollywood. The motivation for the 200-mile round trip was that after the movie, the girls get to enjoy tea with the Disney princesses.

Using the theater’s Web site, I selected the eight seats I wanted. But when I tried to order our tea party tickets, the Web site would only allow me to buy seven. While I tried to figure out the problem, the Web site shut down.

When I was able to get back in, I was devastated to see that our desired seats were no longer available. I bought seats six rows back, successfully got the right number of tea party tickets, and put the $300-plus charge on my credit card.

I’m not exactly sure why, but later, I returned to the Web site to see if tickets were really selling that quickly. I was astonished to see that the seats we originally chose were available.

I called the box office and explained the situation. I was pleasant, but pointed out that my “problem” started with an error on the company’s Web site.

The ticket seller was sympathetic, but unable to change our tickets—regardless of whose mistake set things in motion. A call up the chain of command was useless—a pleasant-voiced woman first came up with a story about the tickets being held then released, and ultimately implied that I was an idiot for wanting to be closer to the screen.

“Things don’t always work perfectly,” she finally said.

That’s true, but usually, those responsible try to fix their mistakes—or at least feign interest. As I write this column, the seats are still available, but the only way I’m going to get them is if I hand over a couple hundred bucks more. And that just isn’t going to happen.

The lesson? You win a few, you lose a few. But now and then, you just have to make a stink.