Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Return to Me
I had to make a return at a certain retail chain that will go unnamed the other day, since they sold me a rip with a shirt around it. Now, admittedly, I did not have the receipt, because my cleaning lady is very proactive in terms of defining what "trash" is (she's also started reorganizing my belongings for me -- it's pretty cute), but I have to feel that things could have gone a little more smoothly.
"Nuh uh, nope, I don't think I can do that," the blank-eyed clerk helpfully told me when I explained my predicament. She shook her head vigorously and waved her hands so elaborately I thought that perhaps Marlee Matlin was attempting to make a return as well. Of course, all of her conviction couldn't really save her from the fact that the actual return policy was taped to the counter right in front of her, and read somewhat differently from her admittedly simpler impromptu version. After a lot of pointing and reading aloud, we finally got some consensus. An underling was dispatched to find me a non-ripped version of said shirt.
It wasn't until about ten minutes later, when I saw the intrepid shirt-searcher go by the front window smoking and drinking a coffee, that I realized he probably wasn't coming back. I returned to my friend at the counter, only to discover that she had completely forgotten who I was. Having seen Memento at least six times, I was prepared to deal with this, and managed to get leave to go search for the shirt myself. And I immediately found it, in every size but my own.
This was the point at which I just said "fuck it" and took an exchange for the closest thing in sight. Which turned out okay, because I look pretty spectacular in a strappy pink tank top.
I had to make a return at a certain retail chain that will go unnamed the other day, since they sold me a rip with a shirt around it. Now, admittedly, I did not have the receipt, because my cleaning lady is very proactive in terms of defining what "trash" is (she's also started reorganizing my belongings for me -- it's pretty cute), but I have to feel that things could have gone a little more smoothly.
"Nuh uh, nope, I don't think I can do that," the blank-eyed clerk helpfully told me when I explained my predicament. She shook her head vigorously and waved her hands so elaborately I thought that perhaps Marlee Matlin was attempting to make a return as well. Of course, all of her conviction couldn't really save her from the fact that the actual return policy was taped to the counter right in front of her, and read somewhat differently from her admittedly simpler impromptu version. After a lot of pointing and reading aloud, we finally got some consensus. An underling was dispatched to find me a non-ripped version of said shirt.
It wasn't until about ten minutes later, when I saw the intrepid shirt-searcher go by the front window smoking and drinking a coffee, that I realized he probably wasn't coming back. I returned to my friend at the counter, only to discover that she had completely forgotten who I was. Having seen Memento at least six times, I was prepared to deal with this, and managed to get leave to go search for the shirt myself. And I immediately found it, in every size but my own.
This was the point at which I just said "fuck it" and took an exchange for the closest thing in sight. Which turned out okay, because I look pretty spectacular in a strappy pink tank top.
