ASOS, Yuh Dun Goofed.

It’s been a long time, I shouldn’t have left you. At least I’ve got a story to tell, boo. And boy, is it a doozy:


For those unfamiliar with my life, I’ve been EXTREMELY tired lately. I have, however, still been blogging a bit. Perhaps Tumbl-ing is a better verb, but I have been into some sort of activity. Anyway, my tumblr is mainly focused on my journey to girliness, where I take pictures of myself in dresses and stuff, gauge opinions on hair and makeup, and learn how to be more girly. In conversations and through some of my Twitter connections, I learned about a company that had gotten rave reviews about the style, fit, and even delivery. I was determined to learn more about this company.

After working for a bit, perhaps after my second paycheck, I registered with ASOS, and got to shopping. I was excited about my first spree- there were dresses, skirts, and a couple of tops. I won’t mention the amount spent, because frankly, that matters not. Placed my order on the 17th, and it shipped by the 19th. Their shipping schedule says 8 “working days,” but as the patient princess I am, I gave it until the end of the month. I made up excuses for them, thinking it could have been held up by customs, they couldn’t find me in the cornfields, or something. Either way, I penned a query to Customer Care, and recieved this response, after the canned response of  “we have your question, now wait for an actual person to reply (click to make these bigger) :”

I decided to give them the benefit of a doubt (figuring Royal Mail must be as much of a pain as the USPS can be sometimes- see my last angry letter), and wait those extra days, even though my sh*t “should of” arrived by the 29th. On the day before, October 10th, I sent another email. It was a Sunday, and I was about sure the parcel wasn’t arriving.  After the obligatory canned response, I got this: 

I waited 24 hours, pretty much RIGHT after the clock struck 12 on the 12th to pen a new one, simply asking for what they would do next. Patience would win out, right? So, of course, I got the canned response, then this:

 Aw… HAYLE NAWL!! I waited damb near a month to receive this package, and all you can say is “welp, here’s your money back?” Not even an offer to resend what I ordered in the first place, perhaps express shipping? Something to make me think you give a sh*t about keeping my money hostage for so long? I was trying to give them a chance, but this is not the way to do it. I stressed the fact that this was my FIRST ORDER for a reason- your first impression of a company is one that lasts. In the case of ASOS, this one burns, and not in that pleasant way they depict in contraceptive commercials. I wrote this in response:

I took to Twitter too. ASOS apparently searches its name, and I was ambushed by their “Here To Help” account, armed with smiley faces… I’ll just let you see their responses to me, and I’ll post my response to them (at this point, I was sufficiently pissed, and wanted nothing more but to speak with a person). Read down to up, as Twitter be backwards:

In the meantime, they provided me with this “generous offer,” via e-mail:

Ten. Frickin. Puhsents. Is that enough, friends? I don’t think so. A simple Google search leads me to a bajillionty ten percent offer codes. I’d rather have talked to a live person than a crappy email exchange over the course of several days, too. My excitement turned from disappointment to full-on-pisstivity during the duration of this experience, and I am making good on my promise to let the world know. Simply put, ASOS, Yuh Dun Goofed. I can’t and I won’t put my funds into a company that doesn’t even CARE about how customers are treated. It’s such a sad day when you can’t even get excited about the things others love, but this one experience has been… well, exquisitely torturous hell. I promise, I am waiting for that refund, and it better be correct down to the LAST penny. You lost a customer before you even had a chance to wow me with your stylistic offerings, at least I could have had a chance to try on a dress before I decided I hated you.

Shoutout to that package that’s probably floating in the ocean, chilling and stuff.

What I want to know, friends, is have you ever experienced crappy customer service, even in the face of unshakable patience? What did you do? How was it resolved? Should I give ASOS another chance to wow me with this measly ten percent?

Lawd, I’m pissed. Fawk a sprinkle. This is some bull-shiggity.


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Wait A Minute, Mister Postman. I Think You Forgot Something…

 Hello, Friends.

Have you ever had a day that was pretty much normal until… the end? That happened to me the other day. I realized sometime last week that one of my Netflix rentals (The Proposal with Sandra Bullock Betty White) had not come. I figured the problem was with Netflix, so I reported that I hadn’t received it, got a new one sent the next day, done. AFTER I had watched the video in question and was ready to send it back, I receive a little tidbit in the mail from our lovely US Postal Service:

They cared… enough to not send my vidjo.

This, my friends… has never happened in the 24 years, 10 months, and how many ever odd days I have been alive on this fair planet. Never. Of course, my first thought is “why are they sending me the flap with my address on it, sans video?” Better yet, WHY did they deem it was necessary to send me the Ziplock bag equivalent of a Chris Brown apology bow tie? Seriously, I need to know what the point of it all was.

In the middle of my random outrage, I penned this letter, FROM MY PHONE, and uploaded it to Tumblr. I was mad, yo. Real mad. Shar Jackson.

Dear Postmaster: I sincerely regret that my mail was damaged due to a disgruntled Postal Worker. This incident inconvenienced me greatly, because I had to wait DAYS to see The Proposal, starring Sandra Bullock and that douchy guy featuring Betty White. BETTY WHITE, dambit! I expected my mail not only to be delivered in good condition, but also timely. You screwed not only me, but Netflix, by making them look bad.

I understand that mail is frequently damaged because your basement trolls like to rifle through the good stuff before it’s actually distributed. That’s why my mama can’t send me no Florida mangoes no more, ya bastids.

 I completely understand. You’re in the middle of training a new fleet of uniformed dummies, so you sent this piece of a Netflix envelope with my name and address in a Ziplock bag in order to say, “Welp, we tried.” Luckily, Netflix sent the video 4 days ago, and I got my Betty White fix.

I’m sure you’ll screw up again, so as far as accepting your apology, I’d rather not waste that breath of air when you’ll put my electric bill in the neighbor’s box tomorrow. F your existence.


I may have been a bit harsh, but… does this happen in real life, or just to me? Should I continue to write letters for the healing and to get things done? Has any kind of random mailing mishaps come your way? If so, share… I bet this wouldn’t have happened if I was in the suburbs. 

Switching to FedEx for Sprinkle Deliveries,

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Chicago Hates Me. The Finale


Friends, Romans, Bloggy friends, lend me your eyes…

I know it’s been a while since I was due to post this final installment, but let’s just say that this last week turned into a lot more shenanigans, just not to the extent of my recent ones in Chicago. If you need to catch up, here’s part 1 and part 2. With that, I bring you part 3.

We left off where I was tired, lost, and hungry in downtown Chicago, my phone had just died, and I was running out of patience to deal with all that life was smacking at me. In the middle of Union Station, the obvious was evident: I needed to recharge. I wanted to be adventurous, but let’s be for real, how many of you would have the energy to go somewhere you’ve never gone in a city you’ve had (very) limited interactions in?

Armed with a latte from Dunkin’ (and I don’t even drink coffee like that), I ventured inside of a Potbelly. They had all I needed at that point: food, outlets, and a place to sit my rump while I reconfigured my game plan. After my phone had a sufficient charge to tweet, of course I did:

  • ChicagoHatesMe.Org.Gov/StoopidEl/EffDowntown.img
  • (–_–)
  • Thugs don’t cry in public. I’m a thug. I can’t cry in public.
  • I passed the whatchutalmbowt Willis Tower, yet now, I can’t even tell you where the heck that is.
  • Navigation don’t work when your mind can’t process it. Learned that from experience today.

After hearing from enough people that the bus station was “not too far” from my current location, I bravely ventured the downtown area, thinking I could possibly find it. After a conversation with my BFF Smithers’s mom, she, sensing the anxiety in my tone, instructed me to go back to the train station and wait. I picked up some essentials at a local drugstore: ibuprofen and hand sanitizer. I should’ve gotten a magazine, too!

I wandered around the station for a bit. Things were starting to slow down, so I decided to go back and wait in the Grand Hall section, where all the fun goes down, apparently. Armed with free city newspapers, I diverted my glance from strangers as much as I could, and of course, Twitter kept me company:

  • Is it bad when so many things happen in the course of a day, that instead of crying, you think “what else?” I kinda wanna be there
  • Someone just sat on the opposite end of the bench I’m on, and just farted. I freaking quit, Chicago.
  • A homeless man just asked me if I was married. I nodded yes, and he says, “I don’t want yo’ husband. You want yo’ husband?” I nod yes.
  • <<——– Married to Jesus
  • All hand sanitizer everything. Don’t trust nothing. Don’t touch nothing. You’ll get something.
  • Goodness, I’m tired, y’all. Emotionally, mentally, spiritually, the whole thing. I forget basic needs when I’m high on angst.
  • Thank you anyway, but when I’m this annoyed, I prefer to conserve my words. Don’t make me Katie Ka-boom the frick outta here.

  • Today would have been a great day to begin and end a smoking habit.

Eventually, Smithers got the APB on me, got me from the station, and assessed that I, indeed was a mess. Because I had only one change of clothes and that wasn’t working well anymore, our first stop was to a Wal-Mart, so I could get something to change into after a hearty shower. That and dinner. After recapping my day, Smithers agreed that this is the kind of thing that could only happen to me… as if I didn’t already know that.

One shower, one glass of wine, and one nacho plate down, I think I was asleep before my head hit the pillow on that futon. Once I get up the next morning, we get ready, and head towards downtown, and after traffic and whatever else goes on, I miss the morning train. I then begin to realize just how much Chicago hates me: it wants to keep me here, miserable. I trade my ticket (again) for the next one out, and head back to Smithers, prepared to spend a day at school.

  • Ev’reh bod-eh hay-aytes Beeeeeeeeeeez. :-/

Smithers works at an elementary school, and since I was the “special guest” speaker for the day, he ended up giving me a few pointers: don’t look them directly in the eyes, don’t talk to them in baby speak, and don’t try to smuggle any kids home in your bag. What can I say? He knows me. Here’s a quick overview of my day with the youngins:

  • Sebbumf grehd. 😐
  • 4th graders now. How did I end up speaking to these kids, too?
  • That was a sassy, surly buncha 4th graders. They wanted to ask me stuff, though. And, apparently, I was born in 1969. It rhymes.
  • These preschoolers make my heart melt. It’s gonna take a lot for me to not smuggle one of these little precious puffs home.

The school day ends, we book it downtown, and I actually get ON the train this time, with time to spare. We won’t even bring up that the guy who exchanged my ticket did it for the following afternoon, which we didn’t notice ’til checking in. Either way, I made it home, and just in time for So You Think You Can Dance. Ultimately, the universe loves me. Except Chicago.

  • FINALLY on something smoking towards home. Finally. *chokes back tears*
  • OMG I made it home in time for #SYTYCD!!! *Adam Shankman strut*

Have you all ever had any kind of super random experience, where you were just CERTAIN the fates, the gods, or Mother Nature had pulled your number, and put a gloomy cloud only on your head?

*insert gloomy cloud here* 
picture found here

Love and Sprinkles,

PS- Oh, wait! I forgot the most important part! I did end up talking to the person I needed to speak with, and long story short, I was supposed to get a call this week if they were going to start a new round of interviews this week. It’s almost Friday, and I can safely assume, well, you know… No harm to the company, though. I still think they’re awesome. They just would have been more awesome with me.

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Chicago Hates Me. Part Two.

Okay, folks. Here’s part two of the “Chicago Hates My Stinking Guts, and I (don’t) Have the T-Shirt to Prove It” series. This is the fun part, where I can integrate the tweets into it!  Part 1 can be found here.

We last left off on me sucking it in, and gambling another train ride, hoping to have gotten the call I was looking forward to. I waited, hoped, and prayed for a call, and when I didn’t get one, I called myself. The person I was needing to talk to was in a meeting, and would get back to me in a few hours. With that confirmation, I prepared myself to take the late afternoon train home.

Packed and ready to go, I spruced myself up in the mirror in order to hide my (obvious) disappointment in how things had played out. I untwisted my twists, threw on a bit of eyeliner and lip gloss with my sweats, and proceeded to make faces in the mirror. It helped me blow off a bit of steam from the experience, and gave me the mindset of “if you’re gonna face the world, at least be semi-cute while doing it.” This one, coined by my buddy Gem, was called my “deez face.”

Blog deez

Anyway, my friend retrieves me to return me to the train station, but there’s a bit of a change in plans, instead of dropping me off at the train station due to family responsibilities (which I already knew about and was totally cool with), he would drop me off at the train station, where I would be able to catch downtown and get to the train station on time. 

I purchase the transit card, and right off the bat, I have problems- I couldn’t even figure out how my card fit in the darn thing to get to the platform! Luckily, the attendant helped me, and didn’t laugh in my face about it. He even helped me carry my bag over the turnstile. Thank you, kind gentleman. Sadly, a train passed me while trying to figure that whole situation out, so I immediately got antsy. **iTweet: Think I just missed a train. Lovely. Lemme chug this fanta.**

I could see the oncoming train RIGHT DOWN THE TRACK, but it wouldn’t move. I’m wondering if this is normal, and if I’ll even get to where I need to be on time. I think this is when it finally hits me: I don’t know how to navigate this city- I’m not from here! **iTweet: 1-WHERE THE FOCK IS THIS TRAIN?! 2-Eff it, I’m walking downtown. Which way is that again, Google? 3-The train is down there. I can see it. It just won’t move. Why won’t you move?**

Eventually, I look at the map I pilfered from the stop like a tourist, and realize the stop that I’m supposed to get off at does not exist on the line I’m currently on. **iTweet: <<— Freaking the frick out** A few text messages later, I find out where I’m supposed to get off at next, but I miss that stop from trying not to cry on the subway. Pulling my wits together again, I employ Google Maps (now with GPS!) on my phone, and reroute myself. I get off where it tells me to, but I can’t figure out where I’m supposed to transfer to the other line. After walking around the platform aimlessly, I decide to try and make a walk for it. To Union Station. In downtown Chicago. By myself. With no help. Did I mention how I hadn’t had much sleep leading up to this? 

Anyway, I’m following the flashing blue dot (that’s supposed to be me), and realize I’m going in the OPPOSITE direction of where I’m supposed to be. My semi-tired kind of mind tells me that my GPS was picking me up about a block or two from my actual current location, so I just start to walk and go with it… **iTweetWHERE THE FOCK AM I?!?** I passed a lot of buildings, big and small. Most of them, I cannot even remember at that point, because I had about 15 minutes to get to a location that I didn’t even know! I passed the (whatchutalmbow) Willis Tower, and since Mission Beez was out to play, Touristy Picture Taking Beez could not take her place. I walked across a bridge where there was a river, whimpering the whole way. Those who know me, know that I don’t walk over things I can see through. But I had to put fear aside in order to catch the train. 

At that point, all I remembered was the intersection I was looking for while finding the station. I saw the intersection, but I didn’t see the station. Guess it didn’t really help that I didn’t know what it looked like. **iTweet*throws phone in the gahtdamb river* Why come I can’t find the gahtdamb AMTRAK?!?** I walked around this same area about three times, from 5 different angles, only to realize that I had indeed walked past the station multiple times by now. I get in, follow the directions to the ticketing gate, accepting that I was 20 minutes past departure and just wanting to book for the next train. The surly ticket agent informs me that the later train is sold out, making me stuck there until the following morning. Again, I had to plug my tear ducts. **iTweet: 1- I’m gonna cry. 2- Chicago hates me. I’m convinced.**

I realize it is well into the evening, and I had not eaten all day, so while in search of an eatery, the brain gears start working again, as I figure out how to spend (yet) another night in Chicago, when all I wanted to do is be back at my home… 

Part 3 will hopefully be the last one. Hopefully.

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Chicago Hates Me. Part One.

Clearly, I missed the “No Beez Allowed” sign.

Afternoon, friends. By reading the title, you may have figured out that I believe, with no doubt in my mind, that the city of Chicago hates my stinking guts. Not just an area or a neighborhood, but the whole cotdang city. The skyline, Mayor Daley, the (whatchutalmbout) Willis Tower, Lake Michigan, deep dish pizza, the guy selling pickles and watches on the south side, Wrigleyville– the whole thing.

The last few days have been such a smörgåsbord of adventure, I’m not sure if I can even reveal it without posting more than one part. I wouldn’t want to scare you all away from me. I’ll try my best to fully immerse you in what it has been like to be me for the past few days.

One week ago, I applied for a job in Chicago, with a company I know quite a bit about. The job is something that I, along with others, felt was a good match for the skills I currently possess. I was excited for the opportunity, and just hoped that I would get a chance to shine and show them my awesomeness! I saw myself at the place, thriving and surviving. Fingers crossed and prayers sent up, I waited for news, hopefully of the good variety.

Mondays are the days that I run the food pantry, so things were kind of hectic for me. There’s always a lot to do, and because I like to check and double check things over and over again, I hardly sit down. I left my phone around in various places when things were particularly hectic, and hadn’t realized I missed a call from the place until later that evening. Around midnight, I find a contact that lets me know that interviews were being conducted on the following day, which is likely what the call was for.

In an enthusiastic round of “jump the gun,” I begin packing, showering, and preparing myself for an impromptu day trip to the big city. Mind you, I get no sleep in the hours leading up to this. My immediate thought process was to take the first thing that could get me there, call first thing in the morning to find out when interviews were, and by that time, I should already be there. I had a friend at the ready to pick me up from the train station, and although very sleepy, I was optimistic. I didn’t sleep much, due to excitement, nervousness, and everything else. I felt with a latte about half an hour before the (yet to be determined) event, I’d be okay.

I get there, catch up with my friend, and the waiting game begins. I called, and he couldn’t reach me until later that day. As the day turned to dawn, though, some of the enthusiasm wore off, as I tried to stay a bit optimistic. I wanted to just turn around and go home, but something (and a few someones) prompted me to hold on for just another day. Hope intact, I changed my return ticket to the following afternoon, bit the bullet, and stayed another night…

Part 2 up next.

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I shall be brief. Wuzzah!

Oh what a weekend!! Well, since it’s graduation season, I attended some at my good ol’ Alma Mater, since I still live in the area. In the sea of blue, I got memories of my own last year. In the midst of all of the family drama, anxiety, and sleep deprivation, you feel a sense of accomplishment and thankfulness. Seeing some of my best friends (and even those that I know that aren’t my bestest of friends, but good people nonetheless) cross the stage, all smiles, made me feel happy for them. I understand that while our journeys to that point may have differed, they all ended with the same thing: a handshake and a degree (not to be confused with a diploma, you know). I understand, and hope you now realize, that those all nighters, tears, and stressful points were now worth it. For those of you that are not quite finished (yep, you August and December, or even later, grads), keep on pushing. Don’t let that whole “finishing on time” concept hold you back. What the heck does that mean anyway? Your time is your time. End of m.f’ing story.

I wish you all of the success that you can take, and even then, a little dash more, because from here, you can do all things! I pray that each of you are safe and well in whatever the next steps are from you, and if you happen to see me on the street looking unkempt, that you will let me borrow $5. I’m good for it.

Take care, and Congratulations Class of 2009!!!
*celebratory booty dance, a la Riley Freeman*

Don’t toss those hats too far. You know those are rented! 🙂


P.S.— You can exhale now. It’s over!
P.P.S.– I know you’re excited, but in your facebook/myspace/twitter/whatever accounts you use, please don’t call yourself an “alumni” of *insert your school here*. You can be an alumnus or alumna of said school, but alumni is plural. Unless you have more personalities than you usually talk about, please use the correct term graduates! :*)

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