Resolutions and the Tipping Point

It's the only New Year's resolution that I've been able to keep but this year, I'm going to break it.

In the mid 1990s, I resolved to never declare another New Year's resolution. That didn't mean that I would stop giving myself goals, such as working out more, eating better, or promising myself that I would do something to improve my physical and mental health. But I would never say, in the days leading up to January 1st or on that day, that I would declare that I was going to do something for that year or going forward, indefinitely.

As 2023 was drawing to a close, I was starting to feel outside pressures on me to do something that I didn't really want to do. There was a trend that had been developing for the past few years, and I would give into that trend, even though I didn't feel comfortable doing it.

Then, just before Christmas, a CBC Radio phone-in show had this trend as its topic, and I decided that I would break my 30-odd-year streak of keeping the last New Year's resolution that I've ever made.

Photo: Wayan Vota  CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.

Starting this year, I'm going to stop tipping.

I don't mean that I will no longer leave a gratuity for a server at a restaurant. I've been tipping servers for as long as I've been paying to dine out. If someone greets me at my table, takes my order, brings my food, and clears the empty dishes away, I'm going to leave them something. They're working hard to make my dining experience a pleasant one and that should be rewarded.

I've always left 15 percent of the bill, including taxes, for my server. That percentage was ingrained on me when I was young and I've always stuck to that amount. If the bill was a small amount, I'd also round up to the nearest dollar.

If the server goes above and beyond the basic requirements that I've mentioned above—they've made recommendations, or offered wine or beer pairings, or done something that personalizes the dining experience—I'll give more, between 18 and 20 percent.

If the server doesn't meet the minimum requirements, such as getting the order wrong, arguing about a problem (I don't like to argue), or ignoring my table, I'll leave less but never less than 10 percent. I'll also let them know that I wasn't happy with the service, without making a big fuss over it (again, I don't like to argue).

I've also always tipped my barber, and again, 15 percent is the standard. If I've gotten to know the barber well, I might also give more around Christmas time, or I've even brought him or her a gift.

When I order food for delivery, the driver always gets 15 percent of the order. They should be compensated for my laziness, in not going to pick up the order myself.

But I can't think of other instances where I should be adding more of my hard-earned money for goods and services.

For example, I've been receiving massage therapy for decades. The price for the service is advertised when I make my booking. In all that time, when the massage session was over and I had to pay for the service, it was always the advertised price, plus sales tax.

When my RMT updated her point-of-sale equipment, she told me that the default setting came with adding a tip, and she hadn't figured out how to turn it off. She told me to ignore it, so I did. I never added more that the going amount.

When I switched RMTs, I started going to a larger company with several clinics around the city. When the massage was finished and I was with the receptionist, a tip screen came up. Not wanting to feel cheap, I added 18 percent.

On subsequent visits, I felt that 18 percent, on top of the more-expensive fee, was too much for me, so I dialed the tip down to 15 percent.

But here's the thing: I'm hiring one masseuse to treat me at an advertised rate. Why do I have to pay more to that person? At the time of booking, the RMT is essentially telling me that she'll work out my knots and aches for X dollars. Why do I have to give her more?

I know why. Because the company has to pay for the building and pay it's front-desk staff. But the cost of this massage is already much more than I was paying my previous RMT.

As good a job my new RMT does, starting this year, I'm not adding on a gratuity. To me, the base fee already covers her. She should be getting the lion's share of what I pay and if she isn't, she needs to bring that up to management.

If she asks me about it, I'll be honest.

The same goes for when I take my car for an oil change. The price of the change already includes the cost of the oil, the disposal fee, and the mechanic's intake. Why do I suddenly need to start tipping?

And still, the same goes for fast-food restaurants, take-out restaurants, and anything where I'm performing most of the work myself.

In my early 20s, I once got berated by a grumpy bartender when I went up to the bar to order a beer. He reached beneath the bar, without moving his feet, and produced the bottle from a refrigerator below him. He cracked the cap from the bottle and passed it to me.

The cost of the beer was something like $5 or an even dollar amount, and I gave him the exact amount with a "thanks."

"What, nothing for the service?" he growled.

"What service?" the young, cocky me replied. "You passed me a bottle that took no effort to produce. Do you tip the convenience-store clerk when you ask for a pack of smokes and he reaches for the pack from behind the counter?"

I got more grief from the bartender but I just went back to my table, where my friends were waiting. For the rest of that evening, I waited for a server to take my order and yes, I tipped them for going to the bar, getting the right drink, and bringing it to me.

That's service.

Are businesses getting out of hand in asking for gratuities? Are we, as consumers, supplementing a worker's pay, rather than the company appropriately paying their staff?

Where do you draw the line at tipping? Do you tip, regardless of the situation, when the PoS terminal prompts you? Leave a comment and let's start a conversation.

My New Year's resolution—the first in decades—is a tough one. How about you? Have you made a resolution to start off the year?

Happy New Year!

Tough Canadians?

March seems to be a bad time for our furnaces.

Image: Google

In that month, back in 2010, on a frigid night where the outside temperature was -20°C, not including the windchill factor, we were awakened by the piercing chirp of our carbon monoxide alarm. Apparently, our 10-year-old furnace had developed a crack in the heat-exchange unit and was leaking gas.

I shut off the gas, vented the house for about an hour, and in the morning I called a service to inspect and assess the damage of our non-functional furnace. I learned that the furnace, which had been installed when the house was built, only had a 10-year warranty, which had expired about three months ago. The cost of repair on an aging furnace was not worth it, so we replaced the whole furnace.

Our new furnace came with another 10-year warranty, except for the heat-exchange unit, which had a lifetime warranty. In about 40 hours after we were rudely awakened by our CO monitor, we had a new furnace and were toasty as can be. The night before the replacement furnace arrived, DW, the kids, and I huddled together in our family room, warmed by our gas fireplace.

There was no alarm this time. We simply started feeling colder.

I know that the furnace was working on Monday morning because I remember hearing it when I was in the basement, taking care of our cats' litter boxes. For about a week, the furnace had begun sounding louder. When I investigated the noise, it seemed like it was just one of the vents that flowed out, directly above the unit, vibrating. In fact, holding the vent with my hands would cause the vibration to stop. But still, as I was cleaning the litter boxes, I told myself that we should get the furnace serviced, to make sure that it was fine.

It wasn't fine. Apparently, some time later, it stopped working.

We ordered a service call, and when the technician opened the furnace, he discovered that condensation, from the exhaust pipe, was leaking into the unit. It had fried the circuit board and had begun rusting other wires and components. It was going to cost $1300 just to replace the circuit board, and that wasn't going to solve the root problem as to what was causing the leak or why that issue was causing the vibrations.

We were probably looking at another couple of grand to fix everything, the technician estimated. He added that the average lifespan of our type of furnace was 15 years, so investing that much to repair a unit that might only have a couple more years left in it might not make sense.

I had to agree.

The next day, a salesperson came out to give us options for a new furnace. He showed us his least-expensive unit, that would do the job but wasn't as good as what we already had. He showed us his top-of-the-line model, which was WiFi-enabled and had so many features that my head was spinning.

And then he did what I knew he was going to do and should have just led with: a furnace that was comparable to what we had but included a new thermostat and was insulated, which would make the unit even quieter than our old unit had been before it started rattling. This unit had a 10-year warrantee for parts and labour, a lifetime warranty on the heat exchanger, and if the heat exchanger were to somehow go in the first seven years, they would replace the entire furnace.

We liked that deal but we wanted to shop around. Though I liked the salesperson and we had dealt with this company when we replaced our hot water tank with a tankless heating system, and even though the salesperson offered me an $800 loyalty discount, I wanted to see what else was out there.

The next person who came to our house, 48 hours into being without a furnace, inspected our unit and confirmed that it would be more expensive to repair than would make sense, for its age. He was also a sales rep, and had quite a few makes and models to show us.

The unit that best-matched the furnace that we already had and was comparable to the furnace that we had been shown by the other sales rep was about $500 less than our first quote. While this model didn't come with a new thermostat nor was it insulated, those weren't deal-breakers. Five-hundred bucks is five-hundred bucks.

My first loyalty, however, was to the company that we had dealt with, before. A couple of years ago, when we had them come for a maintenance call on out hot-water heater, they found an issue that was no longer covered under the manufacturer's warranty. But because our model of heater had a recall on a part (which was not giving us any issue), the service guy got the manufacturer to replace our unit, and we received an even better system, free of charge (except for the service call).

They won my loyalty that day.

The $500 price gap would actually be only a $300 difference because we had already paid $200 to the first folks for the original visit, on Monday. In the original price negotiation, that $200 was also going to be incorporated in the price of the furnace replacement, on top of the $800 loyalty discount.

I called the first salesguy and told him that if he could find his way to bring the price down by another $300, he would have the sale. He said that he'd have to check with his manager but that the ask wasn't unreasonable: however, we probably wouldn't be able to get the furnace until Friday.

Five minutes later, he called back, said that he would match the competitor's price, and that he was able to secure installers for the next day (Thursday).

Loyalty cemented.

By the time that the installers arrived, DW and I had had no working furnace in more than 72 hours. But we're tough Canadians. We dressed in layers. We shared time with the one space heater that we have, so that we could warm up our respective home offices during the day. Outside of work, we hung out in the same rooms so that we could benefit from the heater, and the cats also snuggled up to us for mutual added warmth.

We were fine.

As the installers checked on our existing, usable ducts, they detected a fault that was the root of the leak, and it dated all the way back to the construction of our house. The exhaust pipe, which led outside, was sloped the wrong way. Instead of condensation heading out of the home, it would run back, ever so slightly, to the furnace. Surprisingly, the team that installed our second furnace didn't catch the problem.

This technician said he's been doing this job for more than 26 years and he occasionally comes across this problem. He said it would be easy to fix and set out to work—all part of the installation so no additional cost!

A few hours later, the work was done. Both technicians did a great job, and DW and I don't have to tough out the cold (the house dropped to 10°C at night and warmed up to 12°C in rooms that didn't have the benefit of our space heater).

The cats seem happy, too (both technicians loved cats and weren't bothered by our curious creatures).

Yes, we're tough Canadians. To a point. I don't know if we would have been in good spirits if we would have had to wait until Friday for the new furnace, and would have been miserable by today, which was a potential estimate for replacement by the competing salesperson.

But for 72 hours, we're tough.

Five Stars

It's not often that I receive a phone call while I'm cycling. DW never needs to call to ask where I am on my route. My smart watch sends her an e-mail message as soon as I start my ride, and the message contains a link where she can click and immediately see where I am on a map.

It's a clever feature. It also automatically notifies her if I ever wipe out on my bike, which thankfully has never been put to the test. But at least she'll know where to go and pick up my pieces.

My watch and smartphone app are a great team and I rate them at five stars.

My Bluetooth headphones allow me to answer a phone call and talk, though I often have to turn my head to one side so that air doesn't rush into the microphone and drown out any kind of conversation. If I need to make an outbound call, though, I tend to pull over so that I can hear and be heard, and have my full attention on the person on the other end.

Last Friday, as I was a few kilometres into my ride, a call came in from our Kia service centre. About a week earlier, I had taken our Niro in for scheduled maintenance, but I had no idea why the centre was calling me at this particular time.

I pulled over and answered the call.

The service manager asked me if I had received an e-mail message from them with a survey about my last visit. To my knowledge, I wasn't sure, as I don't check my e-mail as often as I used to. I have far more correspondence through text messages and social media.

"If you could please check and complete the survey," the service manager requested, "it would be very helpful to us. The survey is our report card." I promised that I would look and ended the call.

In retrospect, I wished I hadn't bothered to stop and take the call while I was on my ride.

I was once told by another service centre that anything short of a perfect score on a survey was a failure in the eyes of the corporate overseers. And that's really a shame.

When I brought my car in for service, I was greeted promptly and the representative was friendly as I dropped off my key and she arranged for a ride back home. It was a cordial but short interaction. The person wasn't surly or rude, nor did she go above and beyond what I would expect when I'm dropping off my vehicle for service.

A Goldilocks interaction: just right. But when it came to evaluating that meeting, was it worth five stars? No.

I didn't hear from the service centre until about four o'clock, just after I had finished work for the day. I wanted to get a bike ride in and was preparing to change into my cycle gear when the call came in. I decided to cycle to the dealership to pick up my car.

When I showed up at the service counter with my bicycle, I was met with the same person who had served me in the morning. When she pulled up the service sheets, she quickly showed me that everything went as expected and there were no surprises with the car. "She's running great," is all I was told.

I remarked about how happy DW and I were with our Niro, to which the rep replied, "That's always good to hear." I paid, collected my key, and bade the rep a good weekend (it was a Friday).

Was that five-star service? Again, no. It was no more and no less than I'd expect. I left the shop neither feeling bad about my experience nor feeling like I had been treated extraordinarily.

In fact, in both interactions, I was the one who initiated chit chat, who cracked a few jokes, and who bade the rep a good day and a good weekend. For me, I feel that it costs me nothing to be cheerful and friendly to people, so I try to be the nicest me when I encounter employees of wherever I'm shopping or conducting business.

Nice people are remembered just as much as disagreeable people, but nobody looks forward to seeing the return of a disagreeable person. It's the nice person who we all look forward to encountering again.

When I returned home after my ride, I checked my e-mail and, sure enough, the survey was awaiting my attention. Most questions in the survey required answers provided on a scale of 1 through 10. The person who interacted with me didn't deserve a score of less than 5 but for some scores I went as high as 6 (because she put up with my jokes).

I wished that I could have provided comments to clarify my scores. The representative acknowledged me as soon as I came through the doors, both times, but I had to wait a couple of minutes before being served, which was fine. I wasn't ignored.

She was neither surly nor cheerful with me, though she did smile or laugh when I said something funny. In other words, she was a fellow human, doing her job exactly as the situation demanded. And I respect that.

I like how every time I drop off my Niro, there are no hidden costs or surprises. The car gets five stars for being solid, well-built, and reliable. But those aspects aren't taken into consideration in the survey.

Our Niro, in tip-top form, ready for adventure.

There is one thing that I've noticed in the last three times that I've taken the car in for service. One question asks if the car is returned to me a) better than I left it, b) the same as I left it, or c) worse than I've left it. I've always answered b, but when I start the car, I'm met with the warning message that I'm due for a maintenance check.

The message is never reset by whoever services the vehicle. I always have to do it, myself.

It's a small matter and very easy to do, but if anything less than perfect is a failure, that one little action is less than perfect.

I don't know what would constitute a perfect score. Do I just grade 10s across the board so that the corporate bean counters can feel good? It seems so contrived, and anything more than an average score for expected service seems like a lie to me.

What do you think? Should I have given the service folks a perfect score? How to you rate service departments in surveys? Leave a comment.

This may be the last survey that I fill out from Kia, unless I'm left dissatisfied after the experience or feel that my visit was memorable. And if I receive a reminder call from the service manager, I will respectfully explain why I feel such surveys don't mean much if they have to be pumped up for average, expected service.

Unless I leave the dealership thinking, wow, I did not expect that kind of service—good or bad—they can expect no feedback from me. No news is good news, right?

This Meagre Existence

He was one of the kindest men I knew. By now, he has long gone.

Though he never spoke of where his home country lay, I always assumed that he was Eastern European. His soft voice and subtle accent intoned a mix of German, Polish, or even Russian. If I had to make an educated guess, I'd say Bulgaria.

I should have asked.

While he was carrying extra pounds, I wouldn't ever consider him fat. He had that well-fed look that many men get with age: that belly that makes us almost look pregnant. I have a bit of that look, these days, but his age—somewhere in his 80s—also gave him the jowls that could wobble with laughter. His grey hair was thinning but, in lifting high over his head, seemed full. He wore thin, silver-rimmed glasses, and always had a smile on his face.

Always.

He was a regular customer of the camera store, and so I saw him a couple of times each month. He would drop off rolls of film, would be in no rush for the prints to come back, and took the one-week return. Because he was a good customer, if the in-store lab was slow, we would ask him if he had other errands to run in the mall. If he did, we would tell him to come back in a half-hour to hour. Though we would charge him for the one-week turnaround, we'd process the roll right away.

Any time he entered the store, I would always call out to him, even if I was already serving another customer. "How are you, Mr. G—?"

His answer was always—always—the same: "Oh, you know, surviving the trials and tribulations of this meagre existence."

I never tired of his response.

Even later, when I moved from the camera store to one of the banks in the mall, to which I learned he was a customer, I would greet him the same way and he would give me the same response.

As a customer of the camera store, he would sometimes show me his processed photos. Photography was a casual hobby of his, though even in his 80s, he was looking to learn. He would show me a photograph and would ask me for advice: "How could I reduce the clarity in the background? I want to focus on the subject." "How could I keep the sunset while keeping the person illuminated?" I would take the time to explain the aperture settings and how they affected depth of field, or I would suggest he add a flash to a sunset, to illuminate his subjects. I didn't know the answer right away, I would ask the other photographers in the store, or I would consult one of the photography books that were kept in a display case.

In the bank, I would try to meet with him at the side counter, ask him about his photography, ask him how he was feeling. I anticipated his pat answer to the latter. He would also ask me about my interests. He knew that I had developed a love of wine, had studied several books on the subject, had enrolled in the sommelier program at Algonquin College.

One day, as my day at the bank was drawing to a close, Mr. G— came in and went straight to the customer service counter, asked to specifically speak with me. He was conducting no bank business, that day, but wanted to see me. When I finished with my customer, I approached him.

Mr. G— pulled out a gift bag from the LCBO. "I know how you love wine, and I wanted to give you this."

"Thank you!" I said, "You needn't have gone to such trouble. What's the occasion?"

"No occasion," he replied. "I just wanted to. I wanted to give something to my favourite person in this mall."

I was deeply touched. I thanked him again. "How are things going with you?"

"Oh, you know," he began, and we finished it in unison, "surviving the trials and tribulations of this meagre existence."

As fate would have it, on the day that I received this gift, I had plans to meet friends who worked in a boutique wine shop, downtown. Every week, I paid these friends a visit, and I would always bring a bottle of wine that we would share and appreciate in the boutique's tasting room. That day, we enjoyed the Bordeaux that Mr. G— had given me. Though I have long-forgotten the label, I have never forgotten the richness of that Cabernet Sauvignon-Cabernet Franc blend.

A couple of days after that tasting, I discovered that wine in the LCBO. It came with a $50 price tag.

I said a fond farewell to Mr. G— before my wife and I left for Korea. I wrote him a couple of postcards in the first few months, but he never wrote back. Perhaps, the address seemed too strange for him to copy. Perhaps, he just wanted me to get on with my life.

He was in his 80s when I last saw him, more than 20 years ago. Surely, he is no longer among us.

On a recent visit to my massage therapist, it came to my attention that every time we greeted, she asked me how I was doing. Without thinking, my response was the same as it is for everyone who asks me. "Fine." Only, when I see her, she's looking to know how my body is doing, how she can help me in my visit. I always have to step back and explain where I'm hurting, where my stiffness lies.

I've realized that my response of "Fine" just doesn't cut it, anymore. Going forward, my response will be a nod to an old man who was always kind to me, who never wanted anything in return. If you ever run into me and ask me how I'm doing, I know what I'll say.

"Oh, you know, surviving the trials and tribulations of this meagre existence."

So Much for Good Will

One time, when Starbucks messed up my coffee order, not only did they make me a new coffee right away, they also gave me a coupon for a free beverage of any size for my next visit. Another time, when they made me wait a long time because my order somehow got lost in the crowd, I received a $10 certificate.

My original order was less than $4.

In San Diego, last month, my appetizer came only a couple of minutes before my main course. I didn't notice the delay, but my server apologized and didn't charge me.

In all of these cases, the customer service went above and beyond my expectations, and solidified my loyalty to the establishment.

Last week, my car suffered a major failure, which nearly resulted in a serious accident and could have cost me grave injury—possibly, my life. For my trouble, Ford said "sorry" and charged me $100 to fix the problem.

True, they followed their commitment  to the automobile and honoured my warranty. But as far as making me feel like they cared, they fell far short of the mark.

When I bought my 2012 Titanium Edition Focus, I was in love. It had a nice sport package: a peppy engine, premium suspension, touch screen and voice-activated control system for climate control and synchronization with my smartphone, plus it had a lovely black-and-white leather interior. In the past, I was reluctant to buy a North American car, let alone anything by Ford (my dad swore by them but any time I drove one of his vehicles or rented one, they drove like crap).

See? I even took my car to the beach!

About six months after I bought my car, I encountered my first problem. The transmission began to shudder when I started from a stopped position, or if I was negotiating a turn, when I would take my foot off the gas, brake, and then reapply the accelerator as I was finishing the turn. The shudder felt like the front wheels where spinning, trying to gain purchase on the road surface, even though they weren't spinning.

Do you know that sensation you experience when you start moving on a wet road, and your front wheels lose traction as you roll over a painted stop line? That's how my car felt every time I accelerated.

I took the car in for service and was told that the problem was with the car's software. Imagine: a computer was making the transmission cause the car to shudder. I told them that it certainly felt more mechanical, but I believed that the computer could be acting up, causing the working parts to misbehave. I let the dealership update the software (it's not a car: it's a computer on wheels) and went on my way. I was told that it might take a few days for things to settle down, as the car learned my driving habits and the program adjusted itself accordingly.

It never went back to the way it was before the problem started, but it did shake less severely. But only for a few months: the problem returned, and a definite noise accompanied the shudder.

When I reported the problem, I was told that they could replace the faulty part but that I'd have to wait while they ordered it in, because there was a back order. I endured the shudder and noise for a few more months before it was replaced.

This time, the repair seemed to fix the problem, and my Focus was running as smoothly as the day I bought it. The honeymoon resumed. I loved how the car hugged turns—not that I speed or drive aggressively, but I can push the rules of the road when it's safe to do so.

The problem returned about six months or so later, and it came full on, so much so that my wife didn't think that the car was safe to drive. We contacted the dealership and they told us that a new part had been made, which is dedicated to this problem. Another appointment, another wait, another fix.

We went almost a year before the problem returned.By this time, Ford had sent out a notice, acknowledging the problem and informing us that the warranty on the transmission was being extended. I brought the car in for the fourth time with this problem. When I picked it up, I told the service representative that I was becoming tired of this band-aid solution, and that this would hopefully be the last time that I would be coming in for this problem. Next time, I wanted a new transmission.

A few weeks later, the car was back in the shop. This time, the transmission wasn't the problem. This time, the problem seemed minor, seemed to be something that could be fixed in a couple of hours. Our Focus uses a keyless system. A fob allowed us to unlock the door without touching the fob. We have a push-button ignition. But what started happening was that the fob would sometimes fail to unlock the door, causing us to press a button on the fob to unlock the car. Also, the push button would fail, meaning that we would have to press the ignition a couple of times before it engaged, or we would have to hold the fob against the steering column for it to work. My wife had to remove the cap that covered where a conventional key would go and insert the entire fob to get the car to start.

We figured that the problem was simple: replace the fobs. Our dealership felt the same way, but the new fobs wouldn't work at all. When my wife returned to the dealership at the end of the day to pick up the Focus, she was told that they'd need to hang onto it overnight. The service manager gave her the keys to an Escape and told her she could use it, at no charge.

He knew the value of customer service, at least.

The next day, a solution to our fob problem still hadn't been solved. We were told that the problem didn't seem to be with the fobs (transmitters) but with the receiver inside the car. They had ordered new parts, but it could take a couple of days. We were allowed to keep the Escape until our Focus was ready.

The week came and went, then the next one. The new receiver didn't communicate with the new fobs. A new, dedicated receiver and transmitter were ordered, made together to guarantee they worked.

They didn't work.

After a couple of weeks with our car, DW visited because we had a few things that we needed and hadn't expected to be without our vehicle for so long. I needed my sunglasses and tripod: she needed a pass and some other personal items from the glove box. The service manager gave her warning before she saw the car—it wasn't going to look pretty.

DW later described the encounter with our car, comparing it to visiting a loved one in the hospital, someone who had been in a terrible accident and had suffered trauma. The manager, like a doctor, told her to brace herself for what she would see, but nothing could prepare her for what lay before her as she saw the interior pulled out, the dash removed and all the wires stretched out.

Don't worry, she was assured, we'll put it back together exactly like it was. You'll never notice the difference.

In truth, when I finally picked it up—four weeks after we dropped it off—the interior looked like new, had been cleaned and everything was in its place. We never received a full explanation of what the problem was and the description on the service record was full of codes and terms I didn't recognize, but the fobs worked.

The car came back to us in the second week of January and, again, it seemed to drive like a car is expected to drive. Smooth, responsive, and in the case of this car, fun.

And then last week happened.

I had noticed that, while the shudder hadn't returned, the gears didn't always seem to be as responsive, especially when turning corners. When I would take my foot off the gas and apply the brakes to negotiate a corner, and then reapply the gas pedal, I would see the RPMs registering a little high for the speed at which I was travelling, and it would take a second or two for them to come back down, after I pressed on the accelerator. I prepared myself for an upcoming return to the dealership.

Last Tuesday, on my lunch break, I decided to return some ski equipment that we had rented for our kids, and so I made the short drive to the sport store. As I approached the parking lot, which was on my left, I signalled, pulled into the left-turn lane, and applied the brakes, not only to slow for the turn but also to let the oncoming cars to get past me. There was a gap between these cars and two other oncoming cars, and I judged that I had plenty of time to make my left turn. I took my foot off the brake and applied the gas as I pulled into the oncoming lane.

Nothing happened.

I mean, I was still rolling but I didn't accelerate and the tachometer didn't change from its near-idling revs. I also noticed that one of the two oncoming cars was going far above the posted speed limit and had passed the other car that was also heading toward me. I pressed further on the gas, now judging that at my current speed, I didn't have enough time to get through safely.

Putting the pedal to the floor did nothing to hasten the car.

Much to the credit of the driver of the speeding car, he was paying attention. Realizing the imminent collision, he slammed on his brakes. I could hear the squealing tires and I squinted, anticipating the impact. This was going to hurt.

But the collision never came. By sheer luck, my car managed to roll across the lane before that driver intersected. I took my foot off the gas and tried it again, and this time it responded as though there was nothing wrong. The speeding driver leaned on his horn and continued on his way: the other car, which had been travelling at the speed limit, may have slowed, but my mind wasn't on him or her. My brain was trying to piece together what had gone wrong, why my car had failed me, and how close I had come to causing an accident.

Correction: how close my Focus had come to causing an accident. I pulled into a parking space and sat there for a minute or two, shaking. I continued to shake, my heart pounded inside my chest, as I returned the equipment. I trembled as I pulled out of the parking lot and returned to work. For more than two-and-a-half hours after the near collision, my body felt as though I had just chugged a pot of coffee.

The adrenaline coursed through my veins until the evening, helped move me through a tough spin class, after which I collapsed into bed and a deep, exhausted sleep.

I returned the car to the dealership on my way home from work, having called when I returned to the office and explained what happened. My wife picked me up in her vehicle (which isn't a Ford) and drove me home. I complained to Ford Canada through social media, and they had someone chat to me through Twitter. 

The next day, a service rep at the dealership said that they adjusted the transmission and that the diagnostic had found a problem with the shift-control module, and that they had ordered a new one. It would take another day to receive the part and install it, but that it would be ready by noon the next day.

"This isn't going to cost me anything, is it?" I asked.

I was told that it was all covered under warranty, so there would be no cost.

Shortly after, a customer-service representative from Ford Canada called me to follow up. She listened to my story of what had happened and my frustration with the constant issues with this car. "What can I do for you?" she asked.

I told her that I'd like Ford to replace the entire transmission, but she said that because there was also a non-transmission related problem in this case, that we'd put a pin in the new transmission idea. Was there anything else she could do?

"Not right now," I said. "This is covered under warranty, so I'm okay. But I have to tell you: this is the first Ford that I've ever bought, and it's probably going to be my last."

She told me that she hoped that Ford could earn my trust and confidence, and that this would not be my last car from them.

We'll see, I said.

I was called the next day, told that my car was ready and that everything was fixed. I informed the dealership that my wife, who works nearby, would be picking it up. And when she dropped in during her lunch break, she called me to tell me that there was a $100 charge for the work in replacing the shift-control module.

"No," I said, "I was told that there was no charge."

Apparently, there was. Because this faulty part was outside of the basic warranty period (which expired last October), my extended warranty covered the part but there was a $100 deductible.

"That's not what I was told on the phone, yesterday," I said. I told my wife to leave the car at the dealership, that I would contact the Ford Canada customer service manager, and that she would make it right. After all, she had asked me if there was anything she could do for me and she wanted to restore my faith in Ford.

It took until the next day to get through to her. We were still without our car. And what she told me did the opposite of what she said she wanted to do only two days prior. She had read the terms of my warranty and, after talking with the service manager at the dealership, had agreed that the module replacement fell within the bounds of my extended warranty and that if I wanted my car back, I had to pay the $100.

In all the years that I've been a loyal Starbucks customer, I have easily received more than $100 in coupons, gift certificates, free coffees, cold beverages, and food items. And not once has any of their products come close to causing me bodily harm, or possibly killing me.

I paid the $100, collected my car, and drove home, not knowing if I trusted this vehicle. My wife now refuses to get in it, doesn't like me driving it. In another year, my eldest daughter will be old enough to start learning how to drive: she won't be doing it in the Focus.

If we didn't still owe money on the car, if we wouldn't take such a big hit on trying to sell it, we'd unload it. The 2012 Ford Focus is the worst car I have ever owned, is the most unreliable car I have ever driven (and I've driven a lot of cars).

Never. Buy. One.

The customer service manager was good at sounding sympathetic to my concerns, was apologetic when she learned that this car came close to causing an accident. Indeed, had that driver plowed into me, the problems with the car would have gone away. Possibly, taking me away with them.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" the customer service manager asked.

Yes, there is. Buy back my car. Admit that there is a serious problem with this automobile (there are plenty of forums that can back me up, including some petitions to sign), and say you want to start over. I've heard that there are some pretty satisfied owners of newer Ford vehicles.

If Starbucks is able to make amends for minor errors, at several times the cost of the original sale, what can you do, Ford?

Giving me back my $100 is the very least you can do.