A Talk With Zales

I filled out a customer survey online today with emphasis on poor service. I requested to be contacted for details, and I just got off the phone with a regional manager. She wanted to know what happened, and I spelled it out while saying repeatedly that I wasn't searching for any compensation and that I recognized a distinction between the employees and the franchise. I just wanted an adult to know that the kids were misbehaving when they were alone.

And she said the right things. From my survey information, she knew which store I was talking about. She said that store was not performing well of late (the whole mall is on its last legs) and had been given a new manager recently. She said corporate policies may have kept the manager from firing bad employees, including yon monkeyfuckers, for a certain amount of time. I don't know if that's the case here. I don't care. I told her that I wouldn't go back to that store, no matter what, and she said she understood. She said she she appreciated the feedback and steps would be taken so another customer doesn't get the same behavior.

So that's that.

That pledge to eat light ended exactly as soon as the pizza arrived at our door. It was miserable weather and Your Sis was napping as I got home. I scurried to the workshop and worked on the comic for a while. I set up my first perspective grid for the first panel: a classroom filled with kids at desks. As we devoured the pizza, we watched this week's "Lost." Maybe my favorite episode so far. It was a throwback to the first season with no appearance of the Others and an d a surprising amount of information exchange. None of this "you wouldn't understand" or "it's complicated." Then we watched a "South Park" and called it a day with a double cocktail of NyQuil.

I still can't make the blog labels work.

Picture of the Day
My photos arrived. Here's me right as Big Daddy skewers my plans for plantation domination.

Food Drunk

Your Sis returned earlier than expected last night minus a cellphone but eager to eat. She thinks she left the phone in the car in which she rode back, but that person won't be back to work until tomorrow. This bothers her because she lost track of something, not that she's addicted to her phone. She knows it's in town because she contacted me with it on the drive back. We ate at Juan's and split some alambres, and it was only after we finished that I told her I had already eaten dinner from Burger King. I assured her I wanted to have dinner with her once I knew she was available for it, but I do think I developed meat intoxication. When I was a younger man, I could wolf down two Whoppers in one sitting. I also developed a belly. No longer, says I. I'll eat like a bird today to make up for it.

When we got home, to help distract her from the phone and the trip, I gave her the ring. That seemed to work. She appears to like it. And it did fit after all.

Picture of the Day
Da ring.


In the News
Here's an interesting article on the administration's use of anonymity in its statements. The administration urges the press to refrain from identifying speakers so no quotes can be held against them later.

Silent Snakes on a Hill

Bachelor Night consisted of three events of varying quality.

I call the store yesterday to see if my ring came in. It did. Thanks so much for calling me, Zales. I get there and find the same two young guys working the cabinets as I saw two weeks ago. I give my name, and the one who didn't process my order initially retrieves my ring. He takes it out of the numbered ziplock bag and hands me a receipt to sign. The receipt states that the undersigned has inspected the ring for all requested repairs. I read this and wait to be given the ring. To inspect, you see. The clerk is baffled as to why I'm not signing. So I say, in small words, I need to see the ring first. He holds it for me but removes the tissue wrapping. Looks OK, I suppose. I just want the stone; I can pay for another fitting or sizing somewhere else. I give him the signed receipt. He walks to another counter to get a Zales box. And as he does he mumbles something to the other clerk. It's probably about my unreasonable behavior. I get the boxed ring without a "thank you" or "hope she likes it" or even a "good evening." Nothing. I'm now convinced these two are running the joint by themselves in the scary-ass zombie-movie mall.

So tomorrow I'm contacting Zales and telling them they have a store run by monkeyfucker frat boys without a lick of courtesy or professional demeanor. What do I expect to happen? Nothing. But I shall never give them one damn dime again. Zales, you equals dead to me.

When Your Sis comes back, I'll present her with the ring, and hopefully all this frustration will vanish.

I then rented two movies, Snakes On a Plane and Silent Hill. While at the Buster of Blocks I noticed, just three shelves over from the massive stack of Snakes on a Plane DVDs, a knockoff film called Snakes on a Train. I had no idea such a thing existed, but I picked up the Plane film confident it would be ten times better than some quicky film slapped together to exploit rental customers with bad hearing or bad memories.

But after seeing Plane, I don't know how much worse the Train film could be. Plane is just awful. It's no fun, it's too formulaic, and it lacks the willingness to wink at the audience. It's also pretty damn stupid. When there are five subplot points that make your Logic Sense tingle within the first ten minutes, you realize have booked yourself a flight on Horseshit Airlines. The biggest surprise was Julianne Marguiles, who most know as the curly-haired nurse from ER, the one involved with Clooney's character. I felt bad for her to be stuck in this film. Jackson looks not at all embarrassed to be here, but he has very little opportunity to let go. The cult of the film developed around him solely, and without him, the film is easily dismissed. I can't recommended even for camp. It's just that flat.

Silent Hill, based on a creepy videogame, is a nice surprise for those who like outright monster horror. It's smart and sleek, with no wasted time for needless character moments. I admire its work ethic. The villains is a little plastic, the scenario a little muddled, but it has great atmosphere and otherworldy menace, my favorite horror element. One actress calls it a mix of "Alice in Wonderland" and Dante's "Inferno," which is almost precise, but one recalls too easily Aliens as the mom descends to a mechanical maze to find her abducted daughter. I enjoyed this one scroll by, but sadly didn't find myself scared by it at all.

Picture of the Day
Really. They made it.

One Ring to Baffle Them All

I go shopping for Your Sister's requested ring yesterday after work. I check some websites of large jewelery franchises to see about prices, but I know what she asked for -- a square or triangle cut red stone on a yellow gold band --wouldn't cost that much. I hit the Asheville Mall and find nothing. All of the main stores are loaded with diamonds or gaudy rings with too much glitter. Imagine a nine-year-old armed with a bedazzler unleashed in a Zales or Helzberg. That's what I see in every jewelry store. Valentine's Day is when they move the blinding crap, apparently. I try the department stores with no luck again.

They have some nice stuff, just not what she asked for. Your Sis wants a ring, not earrings or a necklace or a bracelet. And if the stone I find was the right color, it was cut into a heart or an oval. Does this mean she's [Boston accent] pahticulah[/Boston accent]? Not to an unreasonable degree. The stores are clearly selling to the procrastinating male hoping cumbersome items would make them feel like they successfully pulled a winner out of their ass.

I consider the fashion jewelry, that plastic blocky stuff they don't put behind the counter. Rings and necklaces for $10. I almost buy her $100 worth of it so she could pimp out on the weekends. I even look at the kiosks selling guido jewelry, but I pass on the piled-high necklaces and wristwatches the size of a basketball.

After an hour, I leave and try the Biltmore Mall. This is a spooky place. It's depressingly empty of consumers or stores, and the flickering fluorescent lights suggest a horror movie is about to break out. The Belk's wing is virtually abandoned, and only once you approach the food court do you see signs of life. I find something close to what she had asked for at their Zales, and I take phone pictures to send to her. This is part of our deal. While waiting for her response, I go to the store across the corridor (forgot the name) and find rings that are also close to what she described. But they are larger in size, approaching diva size. I don't think she'd like that, and before I could debate further with myself, she calls to say she liked the first ring. Well, OK then. I'll go buy it, I say.

And back to Zales I go. I tell the man I'd like that ring resized to her dimension and hand him her wedding ring, given to me for just this need. He says the ring I picked is much larger (a 7, where hers is a 5 3/4), and that it would need to be sent off to be resized. They can do it in a week, he says. No thanks, I say. We need the ring Wednesday.

I go back to the other store and ask about one of their diva rings. Both are handed to me, and different discounts are mentioned. I pick one I think she'd like most, note the fair price for it, and ask for it in the size of the wedding ring. I show it to the saleswoman for another measure, and she asks how I manged to get her wedding ring. Oh, I assure her, my wife instructed me to get this right. She notes the size and says the ring I picked would have to be sent off to be resized. Stores only carry rings in one size, seven. I didn't know this. A week, she says. So it's the same as with Zales, and Your Sis would have no ring for Valentine's Day. I wanted her to have something to show the other teachers Wednesday. I know half the fun of getting gifts is the comparisons over lunch. She had to have something.

I call her and ask what she wants to do. Maybe we can buy the ring, have her wear it for a few days, and then send it off for resizing. Let's wait, she says. Let's put of this ring off for another day, maybe a birthday. I know she's backing off the request. She's telling herself the inconvenience is a sign she shouldn't have asked for it. She's falling back to monasticism. OK, I assure her, but you have to get something. A big bag of M&Ms, she says. The Valentine's kind. Are you sure? She's sure. OK, we'll skip the ring, and I'll get the candy when I can find it and be home after that. Love you, bye bye. And I walk right back to Zales and order the ring.

It's a good price for a good stone and setting. I'm happy with the find, satisfied that I finally found it after all the searching, and proud that I'm doing a good thing. She'll be surprised, and the ring will only be a week late. And as I sign the receipt the salesman says, oh by the way, the ring will take two weeks. The guy who picks up rings for resizing only comes on Mondays, and he already left.

You goddamn monkeyfucking bastard. I say in my mind, of course. Out loud, I say, OK, I understand, sure. But next week's a federal holiday. No problem, The Monkeyfucker says. The courier doesn't skip on federal holidays. I'll have the ring on the 26th, he says. The 26th, I repeat. Yes, he says. I thank him, internally curse his genitals with flying pliers, and leave with ring paid for and ordered at her size.

I find the candy at Ingle's, arrive home to find a mug of beer waiting for me for all the trouble, and I tell her abut the ring, including the fact that I ordered it anyway. She's shocked, in a happy way. I tell her about Monkeyfucker, and we agree that this makes three times jewelry stores have fucked us over. All different, but each changing the purchase details once the order has been made. When I bought her engagement ring, the downtown Asheville store demanded all the payment before I could take the ring home, despite what the saleswoman told me. When she bought my wedding ring, the downtown Mayberry store jacked up the price as she arrived to pick it up. And now this.

I assure her I'm divorcing my frustration with them from her request for the ring. I don't want this to discourage her asking for specific things. Next time, I ask, tell me earlier what you want. And why doesn't a jewelry store employ someone who can resize or transplant stones on site? How many sales are lost because of this? My grouchy-sense suspects they pretend to send away the ring so a cheap replacement can later be handed to me. The store sells plastic crap for the price of the stones and never loses the expensive inventory. But I'm a cynical man, and the beer goes to my head quickly. And I'm hungry for the M&Ms.

We eat the weekly buffalo wings (made this time with honey, and they're good, ja), watch "Six Feet Under" and Colbert, and call it a night.

Picture of the Day
This person makes art out of Rubik's Cubes. I assume he has to rotate the block sides, although he could just remove and replace the stickers.