Friday, December 5, 2008

Tits, Ass or Tears

Just a few short months ago, after carelessly leaving my wallet in a cab, I received a call from Commerce Bank letting me know that they had the gentleman who had found my wallet on the other line.  They connected me to the good samaritan and the following Monday morning I met him in front of his office, handed him a bank gift card to thank him and headed on my merry way with my wallet safely back in my hands.  Walking down the street, I carefully cataloged my belongings and to my surprise, they were all in there.  My ID, seven dollars, credit cards, a check for $554 that I had already endorsed and my beloved Sephora Beauty Insider card were each safely in their place.  For the next few weeks I ran around town praising the good nature of my fellow New Yorkers and humanity as a whole.

Cut to Wednesday.  It's exactly one month before our wedding and I'm meeting "T" at Ripley Studios for our first wedding dance lesson.  Having just guzzled a double cappuccino at a meeting half an hour earlier, I immediately headed for the bathroom.  As usual, I was carrying more than I could handle.  My purse, containing our just-picked-up-and-not-yet-insured wedding bands; a tote, containing "the perfect" dance lesson outfit I spent an hour picking out; my giant puffy coat and my most prized possession, my blackberry (aka: my entire life).  After changing and a quick pee, I dragged all of my things over to the sink to wash my hands.  I rested my blackberry on the counter and made sure to keep a careful eye on the purse that was squeezed between my knees because I was filled with fear that if I took my eyes off of it for half a second, it would be gone and, with it, our wedding bands.  Turning my head to grab some paper towels, my eyes left my blackberry for what couldn't have been more than 5 seconds and when I turned back, it was gone.  F-ck Humanity.
In disbelief, I began searching through my bags.  There I was, on all fours on the bathroom floor on the verge of hysterics, shouting into the stalls asking if anyone had seen a blackberry.  After fashioning gloves out of paper towels, I took the cover off of the garbage can and started digging through it, fighting the urge to gag and convinced that I must have dropped it in there or something because people just don't take things like that, do they?  When one of the girls in the bathroom offered to call my phone for me, it went straight to voicemail.  Sh-t, F-ck, Sh-t.  Who would do this?  I went so far as to patiently wait outside one of the stalls while some poor girl tried to stifle a violent "number two" with coughs and courtesy flushes.  I apologized when she was done, but for the love of god, I had to check in there for my Blackberry.  I had no choice.

Still unconvinced that someone would actually steal my blackberry right out from under me, I headed over to the front desk where I was informed that no one had turned anything in.  In tears, I looked up and saw that "T" had arrived.  The first thing out of his mouth was, "I've been trying to call you."  "Someone stole my Blaaaaaackbeeeeeeerrrry!" I whined and before he could offer me any consolation I continued with, "What am I gonna do! My WHOLE ENTIRE LIFE is in there! Who would do something like this?!"   Luckily for "T" our dance lesson was beginning so I had to suck it up and stumble my way through our wedding song, already in a bad mood and now seething because my competitive side can't handle that he's a better dancer than I am.  I continued acting "mature" the whole ride home including tossing out a "You don't understand!" in the cab; stomping away and once again breaking into tears when we arrived at the already-closed T-mobile store; and actually kicking my building before rounding the corner so the doorman wouldn't witness my tantrum.  I ended the rage with a good old fashion wall-punch-throw-my-purse-as-hard-as-I-can-on-the-floor combination the minute we walked in the door.  

As is my usual MO, the next morning I was done with my rant and ready to spring into action.  I gave "T" my standard, post-tantrum apology and thanks, then decided I was going to get a new Blackberry at a discount if it killed me.  Having visiting plenty of T-Mobile stores thanks to a long history of breaking Blackberries, I was familiar with the stereotypical wireless sales worker, so I thought my best bet was to a) shake what my momma gave me and b) bring cash.  Getting ready to go get mine I put on an outfit that was not classy, nor stylish, but perfect for the occasion: The tightest jeans I own and a loooow cut shirt that barely hid the cleavage I had fashioned out of my favorite push up bra and a pair of "chicken cutlet" inserts that I keep in my underwear drawer in a plastic bag labeled "Jane's Boobs".  I topped it off with high boots, the shiniest lip gloss I own and with "T" in agreement, left my engagement ring at home.  On my way to the store, I stopped at the ATM and took out $200 because, just in case my feminine wiles didn't work, I would offer to "pay cash" and "throw in a little extra".

The times they are a changing, because when I walked into my local T-Mobile I was greeted with a plain looking young lady and her manager, a gay man.  I didn't even bother taking off my coat because clearly giving either of them a gander at "the girls" wasn't going to get me anywhere. Time for Plan B. She asked me the usual questions and I informed her that no, I do not have insurance and yes, I just extended my contract two weeks ago so I could get the discount price when my Blackberry broke in Vegas.  She politely informed me that, unfortunately, I was going to have to pay the full $350 price tag for a replacement device. With her manager hovering over, I knew I wasn't going to have the opportunity to invoke Plan B and try to grease her, so I did what came naturally and broke into tears.  Again.  Within five minutes she had me on the phone with T Mobile corporate, where between sniffles I told my sob story to Bob, my friendly customer service representative.  Ten minutes after that I was armed with a new SIM card, a loaner phone and the knowledge that my replacement Blackberry was in the mail for the bargain discount price of $150.  

I thanked Shonda and Miguel profusely, apologized for crying in their store and asked where I could call to sing their praises to the higher ups at T-Mobile.  After walking out the door, I immediately dialed "T" and informed him of the situation.  As usual, after I break down, throw a fit and then spring into action, I try to take whatever just happened and learn something from it. This time around I learned a few things.  First, there are lots of bad people in this world that will take advantage of your mistakes;  Second, even though there are lots of bad people out there, there are definitely more good people than bad; and finally, perhaps the most important lesson of them all, where tits and ass don't work, tears do.  That's one you can take to the bank.


1 comment:

brynnita said...

don't fret. hustle #42: "how to get around t-mobile's wack policy...and make a profit" has been working for years. call me.