1-800-FLOWERS can suck a disease-ridden wart-covered oozing dick.
About ten days ago, before Valentine’s Day, Tanis (aka Redneck Mommy) adopted a son. She’s been trying forever to find a disabled child who needs a family, and after a lot of heartbreak and drama, she finally found one. Since I wanted to congratulate her and I’m totally trying to convince her to show me her boobs, I thought I’d send a gift basket.
Since Tanis lives in the absolute middle of nowhere in Canada, I knew that getting her the basket might be hard. I order a lot of flowers and gift baskets throughout the year, but they’re all only delivered to the part of North America that counts.
After going to all of the sites that I usually use, I found out that none of them will deliver to Canada. What the fuck? So I put Google to use. Searching for online stores that ship to Canada, I came across the Canadian 1-800-FLOWERS site. It’s a streamlined version of their US site, but it still had some decent choices.
Here’s what happened next:
Sunday, February 15, 2009:
I placed my order at 6:30 PM and received the following order confirmation with a confirmed delivery date of Monday, February 16.
Here are the details of the order you placed on 2/15/2009:
GOURMET BASKET – LARGE
ADD ON: ONE “BABY BOY” MYLAR BALLOON
Your Card Message:
TANIS AND FAMILY, CONGRATULATIONS ON THE NEW ADDITION TO YOUR FAMILY! -ADAM AVITABLE
Monday, February 16, 2009:
Around 6:30 PM, I called something that is apparently called “customer service” by 1-800-FLOWERS. I would probably call it “talking to time-sucking shit weasels.”
The shit weasel, who was very clearly talking to me from a call center in India yet called himself George, was about as good at customer service as Helen Keller would be at hide and seek. He had no information about the order, no idea if it had been delivered, no clue if delivery had been attempted, and when he tried to call the florist, it went to their voicemail.
“Please to be calling back later so we can do the needful and make another attempt to reach the florist,” George said finally. I begrudgingly hung up and decided that it wasn’t a big deal. I’d call back Tuesday.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009:
Today’s 1-800-FLOWERS customer service experience was less shit weasely and more “ignorant fuck nuttery”, thanks to an almost indecipherable woman named “Betsy”, which is probably short for Petaluma Krishnaramaswamy.
She informed me that today was a holiday in Canada and the florist would be unavailable to deliver it until tomorrow. I asked why it wasn’t delivered yesterday as requested and I received the telephone equivalent of a blank stare, lightly sprinkled with the din of Indian voices chattering in the background.
I’m sure you’ll forgive me for grumbling at this point.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009:
I actually received an unsolicited phone call from a customer service manager from 1-800-FLOWERS. That was almost enough to literally shock the shit out of me. (The phone rang, I picked it up, the woman said she was from 1-800-FLOWERS, and I actually felt my sphincter start to loosen).
She was not from an Indian call center. She was from an American one and she explained in very flawless English that both her company and the florist were monkey-faced cocks who like to masturbate horses onto their naked chests. I may be paraphrasing here. She also indicated that the gift basket had finally been properly scheduled for delivery on Thursday evening. I thanked her for seeming like she was decently intelligent at a company that was filled with yogurt-brained imbeciles.
Thursday, February 19, 2009:
I was busy with work and trusted the nice lady who called yesterday, so I didn’t call.
Friday, February 20, 2009:
I learned that trusting people is stupid and dumb, especially if they work for a shitty company like 1-800-FLOWERS. I was privileged enough to speak with another Indian woman, this time with the name of “Jane”. Jane tried to tell me that my order should have been delivered on Monday. I exchanged a few “No, duhs” with her until she was brought up to speed. She was chipper, friendly, and completely, utterly, indubitably unhelpful.
“The florist is not answering the phone at this time,” she said.
“Okay. Do you have any notes why the basket wasn’t delivered?”
“No. The florist is not answering the phone at this time,” she repeated.
“I understand that. Can I have the name of the florist? I’ll just call them myself later.”
“I am not allowed to give you that information.”
“It’s a secret?”
“I mean, is this like KFC’s secret recipe? Some type of trade secret? How can the name of the florist be confidential? They’re a business out in the real world delivering flowers for anyone who calls them!”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t give you that information.”
“Can you tell me what the first letter of their name is?”
“No, sir, I cannot.”
“Is it A?”
“Sir, I am not allowed to give you the florist information?”
“C’mon, Jane. Is it B? C? R?”
“Thank you for calling 1-800-FLOWERS.” *click*
“Jane, you ignorant slut.”
After this highly enlightening and edutaining (it’s educational AND entertaining) phone conversation, I decided to go to the customer service section of the 1-800-FLOWERS website. I left a very nice email explaining that a very simple order had been fucked up so many times that it was now just a poor burned out pathetic shell of an order, hanging out on a street corner selling its body for smack, but I still loved my little teenage hooker of a gift basket order and still wanted it to be delivered, but only after I could talk to a manager or someone who could actually effect some change. I may be paraphrasing here.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
On Saturday night, I was hanging out over at Britt’s house, eating her food and torturing her children while she drank an entire blender and a half’s worth of margaritas. Around 9 PM, I got a call on my cell phone. It was another customer service manager from 1-800-FLOWERS, and I thought she was calling in response to my email from the previous night. Nope! She had no idea what I was talking about. Do you want to know why she was calling me? Do ya?
She was calling me to let me know that the florist will not be delivering the basket at all because . . . BECAUSE . . . FUCKING A BECAUSE THE FLORIST CAN’T FIND THE ADDRESS!
Now, first. They have Tanis’s phone number. They actually called her on the day they were originally supposed to deliver. So arguably they could, I don’t know, GET DIRECTIONS?
Second, they’re the ONLY florist in her area, and I’m guessing that they have one of those things with squiggly lines and colors and words – OH YEAH A MAP!
Third, why in the name of holy baby Jesus’s asshole did it take FIVE FUCKNUTTING DAYS for them to discover that they can’t find it? Did they lose three delivery guys in the Great White Northern tundra before giving up hope? UNNAMED FLORIST, I hope your shop burns down and you freeze half to death and burn half to death so that when the two halves meet you explode in a mess of ice particles and melty burned flesh.
The 1-800-FLOWERS woman offered a solution. She was going to provide overnight shipping via UPS or FedEx to the address and find a nice package to send out in lieu of the basket. She promised to get that done immediately so that it could be delivered by Monday. I thanked her, hung up the phone, and joined Britt and her family.
Ten minutes later, my phone rang. Since I was occupied with a party game of “Try to keep Britt from stabbing you with a butcher knife”, I didn’t get it in time, but this is what the voicemail said.
“Mr. Arsnickubble, I am very sorry, but I wanted to let you know that for some reason, every time I tried to get your order set up to ship by UPS or FedEx, they kept insisting that the address was an international address. So, unfortunately, I’m unable to have this package delivered at all. If I can figure out this “international” thing, I’ll send it, but I think I’ll just have to refund your card for the amount you paid. Thank you for using 1-800-FLOWERS.”
Gee, you think? UPS and FedEx want to call Canada an international destination? That just boggles the mind! Of course, only if by “boggles”, I mean “makes me want to” and by “the mind” I mean “stab myself repeatedly in the face.”
And that’s why this is one customer who typically spends at least $1000 a year on flowers and gifts who will never use 1-800-FLOWERS again.