Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Valentine's Day '06: Fiscal anal rape courtesy of my cell phone service provider
(EDIT: I started this yesterday on V-day, but realized that I wasn't going to be able to finish it on account of too much Coors light. Now I'm trying to finish it fast because the hot Iraqi guy on "Lost" is having his flashback of the season, and I want to watch. I don't really care what happens with the survivors of Oceanic Flight 815 or whatever, I just watch this show to watch sexy Sayeed run around shirtless. And this episode, he's torturing someone, so I'm trying to watch it. Therefore, give me a break if this isn't the finely crafted work of hilarity it was intended to be. I'm distracted, and despite my obvious scientific brilliance, I haven't figured out how to clone myself yet. Give me a year or two more to play God with the mice, I'll figure something out).
I fucking hate Valentine's Day. And it's not because I'm a lonely, single, "dried-up" (according to certain concerned relatives) woman without someone to give me a crappy heart-shaped $99 flawed diamond pendant from Zales. On the contrary, I have two dogs, so it's impossible for me to come home and feel unloved or unappreciated. I'll take Caesar and Chingy!'s tail wagging over ugly jewelry any day. I like being single and having the freedom to do whatever I want to whoever I want whenever I want. Besides, I have a vibrator, and a hot body, so I guess I'm just lacking a husband in the bitch accoutrement contest. But since I have a career (or will, if I ever graduate) instead, and a ridiculous amount of self-esteem, fuck y'all married people!
I actually hate Valentine's Day on principle, because it's basically an excuse to commercially exploit people's insecurities about their relationships. I also personally hate V-day because shitty things always happen to me on Valentine's Day. I'm not surprised, since the last time I studied my catechism, St. Valentine himself didn't fare so well on his feast day. Granted, I've never gotten such a bad time on February 14th as to be martyrerd by a volley of arrows, but nonetheless I've never fared well on this Hallmark holiday of love and purchasing.
Today was no exception. First, I woke up before the sun (seriously) because I had to give a presentation today, and I never like to give any of the pimp-daddy virologists I work with a reason to think I'm anything but the shit and a half when it comes to rocking their world with my infection and immunity schtick. I give great PowerPoint, and I don't ever intend to let my reputation slide. Even though I ended up doing the presentation in my (form-fitting, deep-necked, and very Sporty Spice) gym clothes instead of my usual "business slutty" presentation attire, I still came off as polished and together. While my insightful thirty minutes of bullshit that made my ambiguous data sound awesome worked quite well, the rest of the day didn't exactly go as planned.
Chingy! got into a fight this morning at the park with another dog (who was what else? a fucking Pit Bull). Apparently, Chingy!'s lack of testicles does not deter him from starting trouble with vicious ghetto dogs four times his size and muscle mass. I can't really blame him, though, since I don't have a pair either and I engage in lots of mismatched combative behavior. He's obviously following the example that has been set. I tried to reassure him and distract him with petting and "who's a good boy?!" dog affirmations, and he started wagging his question mark (tail) at me, so I counted on his short attention span to erase the Pit Bull from his memory. Then, just as I thought I had him calmed down, he shook off his collar and went Ching!'in back for another helping of punishment. After profuse apology to the Pit Bull owner (and by the way, why am I apologizing that my Pug just attacked a Pit Bull with scars on his face and a fucking chain around his neck???), I managed to lasso Chingy! and drag him back to our "safe space"/vermin-infested apartment.
As I put the finishing touches on my morning routine, I thought that my annual Valentine's Day bullshit had already worked itself out, and counted my blessings. Apparently I did that a little too soon, because I casually dropped my cell phone on the floor as I was gathering my stuff up for the day. Now, one would think that when you purchase a $200 cell phone in December 2004, it would be able to cope with "daily wear-and-tear", which for a clumsy, slovenly drunk like me means regular dropping, jostling, losing in the couch cushions, and general physical abuse. Apparently, my Sanyo piece of shit is the exception. After this one drop, less than three feet to the floor, it decided to Kevorkian itself into oblivion. I was already annoyed that my cell phone was on the fritz before this, as several buttons were on the sticky side and I had problems just last night texting LL Cool Jew about the Pug that won the "Best in Toy Group" at the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show. However, I did not think that this was the last rattling breath of life in my cell phone. I was obviously wrong. I got to work and noticed that numerous buttons on my cell phone had ceased functioning, despite me pressing on them HARD with every laboratory instrument I could find. Then I borrowed J-Sexy's phone to call my phone, and instead of hearing the familiar chorus of my R. Kelly ringtone, I heard dead silence and eventually got my rather bitchy sounding voicemail message. At that point, I knew that the phone was gone, and I would get to cap my Valentine's Day off with a romantic trip to the Sprint store, because not having a cell phone for even one day is not an option.
I HATE going to the Sprint store, or talking on the phone to the Sprint people, or having to do anything with my account that involves interaction with any representative of Sprint. Sprint keeps fucking me over...saying they're going to do things they don't do, ripping me off for equipment, refusing to cancel my subscription to "PCS Vision", and conscripting me into two-year contract extensions. One time my phone got cloned and someone made $300 worth of calls to the Dominican Republic, and I had to pay every cent and argue on the daily with the knuckle-dragging mongoloids that provide "customer service" for THREE MONTHS before it finally dawned on them that I'd been a victim of cell phone identity theft. I hate Sprint and I would dump them, except the other cell phone carriers are just as bad, and now that Sprint has merged with Nextel I usually at least have a good signal. Besides, I still have ten months on my existing contract, since they craftily tricked me into a two-year contract extension when I bought my last phone by dangling 10 bucks off my bill and night minutes starting at 8 instead of 9 in front of me.
So I sucked it up, and went to the Sprint store, where I immediately commenced power shopping. I am not the type of shopper who has to look at everything and try everything out. I want to spend as few minutes of my life as possible at the Sprint store, because every moment there is a moment wasted, so I immediately seek out the phone I want: capable of sending text messages, compact, equipped with a camera, not a piece of shit Sanyo, and $200 or less. I tell a Sprint sales rep, a very large Puerto Rican woman named Esperanza, that I want that phone, and she immediately starts trying to sell me something else.
Esperanza: What about the Samsung A-900? We call it "the Blade." It's like the Razr, but it's made especially for Sprint customers.
Razzy: I don't want a "Blade." I'd probably drop it and break it. I want that other phone, because it has all the features I need, it's a provocative shade of red, and it's $150 after the rebate.
Esperanza: But the Blade is thinner than the Razr! And it's only $349.99!
Razzy: I don't care how thin it is. I carry my cell phone in my purse, not my back pocket, so it doesn't matter how thin it is. I wouldn't mess up the curvature of my ass with a cell phone of any size in my back pocket. And the phone I want is small enough anyway.
Esperanza: The Blade is really the hot thing right now. People can't help but notice you when you're talking on one of these.
Razzy: People are going to notice me for being on a cell phone? Are they also going to notice me for breathing, or drinking beer, or anything that EVERYONE ELSE DOES? That's not how I roll. Cell phones are tools, not fashion accessories. Besides, people notice me anyway, because I'm incredibly loud and uncouth, I have a huge vocabulary, and I frequently expose my breasts in public places. If I wanted to have an overpriced knockoff, I'd be rocking a counterfeit Louis Vuitton purse from Canal Street.
Esperanza: I think that a Blade would really suit you. You seem like the type who wants to look like you mean business. When you talk on the Blade, you look like you are all business. It really gives you that professional edge.
Razzy: I don't need a "professional edge," I'm a grad student in the sciences. There are people who wear pocket protectors where I work, so it's not like I'm trying to get my colleagues all worked up about my cell phone. I don't want a Blade. Do you understand? I'm not buying a fucking Blade under any circumstances. Is there another sales rep here who will sell me the phone I actually want to buy? I don't want to spend the night here arguing with you about why the Blade may or may not be right for me. I DON'T WANT THE FUCKING BLADE! So either sell me the phone I want, or send me to someone who will!
I almost threw in a "puta gorda" for good measure but decided better of it. Oh, I don't think I included all those "fucking"s either, but I was thinking it. In any event, this finally ended Esperanza's attempt to sell me a Blade: she sullenly grabbed the phone I wanted and walked me over to the register. She no longer would speak to me or acknowledge my presence. Instead, she spent the whole time tapping boredly on her computer keyboard with the tip of her three-inch bedazzled fake nail, and complaining about how she struck out selling me a Blade to her co-worker in Spanish. Even though I know she's brazenly talking shit about me right in front of me because she thinks I don't understand Spanish, I decide not to say anything because it will only prolong the torture of being in the Sprint store, and I hope not to see Esperanza ever again. Instead of calling her on it, I whipped out my credit card and prepared to give Esperanza hell about making sure I qualify for every conceivable rebate.
I did get a $75 rebate for being a "loyal customer" (translation: every time my contract was about to expire, I'd mysteriously need a new phone, thus giving Sprint the opportunity to badger me into a contract extension). I asked Esperanza why new customers get this particular phone for free, but someone like me who has been a Sprint PCS customer for 6 years has to pay for it. She gave me the most overdone look which plainly stated, "Are you kidding me? Because we own you, you cheap, non-Blade-buying bitch." Then she informed me that my eligibility for the rebate depended upon me signing ANOTHER two-year contract extension. And since they had me by the proverbial balls, I did sign, because I needed a new phone immediately, I wasn't going to let them get away with shafting me out of a rebate, and if I were to switch carriers now, I'd have to buy my freedom. The local Indians got a better deal when Peter Minuit traded them the 17th century Dutch guilder equivalent of $26 in exchange for Manhattan Island. I signed, and guaranteed another undoubtedly delightful two years of dealing with Sprint people. I haven't ever had a relationship nearly as long as 6 years. How is Sprint getting away with beguiling me into a constant state of indentured servitude? I decide, for the umpteenth time, that I hate Sprint and plan to wage a war of bad publicity against them.
An hour later, I was with my old Smith friend PraiseJah at a decidedly non-romantic spot: Brother Jimmy's BBQ, where they have three kinds of ribs, a flashing neon sign that says "Eat Meat," and Wake Forest v. Duke on all the TVs. Their slogan is "Put Some South in your Mouth," and it is the most un-Valentine's Day place imaginable. I was eating a huge plateful of ribs and collards, drinking Coors light, and still fuming about Sprint. I was distracted from my meat, beer, and socializing because I was trying to complete the laborious chore of transferring my phone address book to the new phone. As much of a pain in the ass as it is, it always ends up being a good thing because you get to take inventory of your social life and trim the fat, if needed. I was like "Carl? Carl? Who the fuck is Carl? Is he that loser with the shoulder-length hair who called himself a "writer/poet/philosopher trying to finish his first major work," or, as it's otherwise known, an unemployed intellectual snob who still lives in the apartment over his parents' garage in Yonkers? He asked me out for tea and open mic slam poetry. Clearly, I'm not hanging onto that phone number."
Not that I expected better service from the Sprint store, but I was decidedly pissed off and annoyed that I'd spent so much of my Valentine's day dealing with bullshit about my cell phone. Valentine's Day is for getting drunk, pigging out, and mocking couples, not getting screwed in negotiations with the idiots that Sprint employs. Fuck you, Sprint. I'll show your insidious asses in two years when my contract expires. Just you wait.
I fucking hate Valentine's Day. And it's not because I'm a lonely, single, "dried-up" (according to certain concerned relatives) woman without someone to give me a crappy heart-shaped $99 flawed diamond pendant from Zales. On the contrary, I have two dogs, so it's impossible for me to come home and feel unloved or unappreciated. I'll take Caesar and Chingy!'s tail wagging over ugly jewelry any day. I like being single and having the freedom to do whatever I want to whoever I want whenever I want. Besides, I have a vibrator, and a hot body, so I guess I'm just lacking a husband in the bitch accoutrement contest. But since I have a career (or will, if I ever graduate) instead, and a ridiculous amount of self-esteem, fuck y'all married people!
I actually hate Valentine's Day on principle, because it's basically an excuse to commercially exploit people's insecurities about their relationships. I also personally hate V-day because shitty things always happen to me on Valentine's Day. I'm not surprised, since the last time I studied my catechism, St. Valentine himself didn't fare so well on his feast day. Granted, I've never gotten such a bad time on February 14th as to be martyrerd by a volley of arrows, but nonetheless I've never fared well on this Hallmark holiday of love and purchasing.
Today was no exception. First, I woke up before the sun (seriously) because I had to give a presentation today, and I never like to give any of the pimp-daddy virologists I work with a reason to think I'm anything but the shit and a half when it comes to rocking their world with my infection and immunity schtick. I give great PowerPoint, and I don't ever intend to let my reputation slide. Even though I ended up doing the presentation in my (form-fitting, deep-necked, and very Sporty Spice) gym clothes instead of my usual "business slutty" presentation attire, I still came off as polished and together. While my insightful thirty minutes of bullshit that made my ambiguous data sound awesome worked quite well, the rest of the day didn't exactly go as planned.
Chingy! got into a fight this morning at the park with another dog (who was what else? a fucking Pit Bull). Apparently, Chingy!'s lack of testicles does not deter him from starting trouble with vicious ghetto dogs four times his size and muscle mass. I can't really blame him, though, since I don't have a pair either and I engage in lots of mismatched combative behavior. He's obviously following the example that has been set. I tried to reassure him and distract him with petting and "who's a good boy?!" dog affirmations, and he started wagging his question mark (tail) at me, so I counted on his short attention span to erase the Pit Bull from his memory. Then, just as I thought I had him calmed down, he shook off his collar and went Ching!'in back for another helping of punishment. After profuse apology to the Pit Bull owner (and by the way, why am I apologizing that my Pug just attacked a Pit Bull with scars on his face and a fucking chain around his neck???), I managed to lasso Chingy! and drag him back to our "safe space"/vermin-infested apartment.
As I put the finishing touches on my morning routine, I thought that my annual Valentine's Day bullshit had already worked itself out, and counted my blessings. Apparently I did that a little too soon, because I casually dropped my cell phone on the floor as I was gathering my stuff up for the day. Now, one would think that when you purchase a $200 cell phone in December 2004, it would be able to cope with "daily wear-and-tear", which for a clumsy, slovenly drunk like me means regular dropping, jostling, losing in the couch cushions, and general physical abuse. Apparently, my Sanyo piece of shit is the exception. After this one drop, less than three feet to the floor, it decided to Kevorkian itself into oblivion. I was already annoyed that my cell phone was on the fritz before this, as several buttons were on the sticky side and I had problems just last night texting LL Cool Jew about the Pug that won the "Best in Toy Group" at the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show. However, I did not think that this was the last rattling breath of life in my cell phone. I was obviously wrong. I got to work and noticed that numerous buttons on my cell phone had ceased functioning, despite me pressing on them HARD with every laboratory instrument I could find. Then I borrowed J-Sexy's phone to call my phone, and instead of hearing the familiar chorus of my R. Kelly ringtone, I heard dead silence and eventually got my rather bitchy sounding voicemail message. At that point, I knew that the phone was gone, and I would get to cap my Valentine's Day off with a romantic trip to the Sprint store, because not having a cell phone for even one day is not an option.
I HATE going to the Sprint store, or talking on the phone to the Sprint people, or having to do anything with my account that involves interaction with any representative of Sprint. Sprint keeps fucking me over...saying they're going to do things they don't do, ripping me off for equipment, refusing to cancel my subscription to "PCS Vision", and conscripting me into two-year contract extensions. One time my phone got cloned and someone made $300 worth of calls to the Dominican Republic, and I had to pay every cent and argue on the daily with the knuckle-dragging mongoloids that provide "customer service" for THREE MONTHS before it finally dawned on them that I'd been a victim of cell phone identity theft. I hate Sprint and I would dump them, except the other cell phone carriers are just as bad, and now that Sprint has merged with Nextel I usually at least have a good signal. Besides, I still have ten months on my existing contract, since they craftily tricked me into a two-year contract extension when I bought my last phone by dangling 10 bucks off my bill and night minutes starting at 8 instead of 9 in front of me.
So I sucked it up, and went to the Sprint store, where I immediately commenced power shopping. I am not the type of shopper who has to look at everything and try everything out. I want to spend as few minutes of my life as possible at the Sprint store, because every moment there is a moment wasted, so I immediately seek out the phone I want: capable of sending text messages, compact, equipped with a camera, not a piece of shit Sanyo, and $200 or less. I tell a Sprint sales rep, a very large Puerto Rican woman named Esperanza, that I want that phone, and she immediately starts trying to sell me something else.
Esperanza: What about the Samsung A-900? We call it "the Blade." It's like the Razr, but it's made especially for Sprint customers.
Razzy: I don't want a "Blade." I'd probably drop it and break it. I want that other phone, because it has all the features I need, it's a provocative shade of red, and it's $150 after the rebate.
Esperanza: But the Blade is thinner than the Razr! And it's only $349.99!
Razzy: I don't care how thin it is. I carry my cell phone in my purse, not my back pocket, so it doesn't matter how thin it is. I wouldn't mess up the curvature of my ass with a cell phone of any size in my back pocket. And the phone I want is small enough anyway.
Esperanza: The Blade is really the hot thing right now. People can't help but notice you when you're talking on one of these.
Razzy: People are going to notice me for being on a cell phone? Are they also going to notice me for breathing, or drinking beer, or anything that EVERYONE ELSE DOES? That's not how I roll. Cell phones are tools, not fashion accessories. Besides, people notice me anyway, because I'm incredibly loud and uncouth, I have a huge vocabulary, and I frequently expose my breasts in public places. If I wanted to have an overpriced knockoff, I'd be rocking a counterfeit Louis Vuitton purse from Canal Street.
Esperanza: I think that a Blade would really suit you. You seem like the type who wants to look like you mean business. When you talk on the Blade, you look like you are all business. It really gives you that professional edge.
Razzy: I don't need a "professional edge," I'm a grad student in the sciences. There are people who wear pocket protectors where I work, so it's not like I'm trying to get my colleagues all worked up about my cell phone. I don't want a Blade. Do you understand? I'm not buying a fucking Blade under any circumstances. Is there another sales rep here who will sell me the phone I actually want to buy? I don't want to spend the night here arguing with you about why the Blade may or may not be right for me. I DON'T WANT THE FUCKING BLADE! So either sell me the phone I want, or send me to someone who will!
I almost threw in a "puta gorda" for good measure but decided better of it. Oh, I don't think I included all those "fucking"s either, but I was thinking it. In any event, this finally ended Esperanza's attempt to sell me a Blade: she sullenly grabbed the phone I wanted and walked me over to the register. She no longer would speak to me or acknowledge my presence. Instead, she spent the whole time tapping boredly on her computer keyboard with the tip of her three-inch bedazzled fake nail, and complaining about how she struck out selling me a Blade to her co-worker in Spanish. Even though I know she's brazenly talking shit about me right in front of me because she thinks I don't understand Spanish, I decide not to say anything because it will only prolong the torture of being in the Sprint store, and I hope not to see Esperanza ever again. Instead of calling her on it, I whipped out my credit card and prepared to give Esperanza hell about making sure I qualify for every conceivable rebate.
I did get a $75 rebate for being a "loyal customer" (translation: every time my contract was about to expire, I'd mysteriously need a new phone, thus giving Sprint the opportunity to badger me into a contract extension). I asked Esperanza why new customers get this particular phone for free, but someone like me who has been a Sprint PCS customer for 6 years has to pay for it. She gave me the most overdone look which plainly stated, "Are you kidding me? Because we own you, you cheap, non-Blade-buying bitch." Then she informed me that my eligibility for the rebate depended upon me signing ANOTHER two-year contract extension. And since they had me by the proverbial balls, I did sign, because I needed a new phone immediately, I wasn't going to let them get away with shafting me out of a rebate, and if I were to switch carriers now, I'd have to buy my freedom. The local Indians got a better deal when Peter Minuit traded them the 17th century Dutch guilder equivalent of $26 in exchange for Manhattan Island. I signed, and guaranteed another undoubtedly delightful two years of dealing with Sprint people. I haven't ever had a relationship nearly as long as 6 years. How is Sprint getting away with beguiling me into a constant state of indentured servitude? I decide, for the umpteenth time, that I hate Sprint and plan to wage a war of bad publicity against them.
An hour later, I was with my old Smith friend PraiseJah at a decidedly non-romantic spot: Brother Jimmy's BBQ, where they have three kinds of ribs, a flashing neon sign that says "Eat Meat," and Wake Forest v. Duke on all the TVs. Their slogan is "Put Some South in your Mouth," and it is the most un-Valentine's Day place imaginable. I was eating a huge plateful of ribs and collards, drinking Coors light, and still fuming about Sprint. I was distracted from my meat, beer, and socializing because I was trying to complete the laborious chore of transferring my phone address book to the new phone. As much of a pain in the ass as it is, it always ends up being a good thing because you get to take inventory of your social life and trim the fat, if needed. I was like "Carl? Carl? Who the fuck is Carl? Is he that loser with the shoulder-length hair who called himself a "writer/poet/philosopher trying to finish his first major work," or, as it's otherwise known, an unemployed intellectual snob who still lives in the apartment over his parents' garage in Yonkers? He asked me out for tea and open mic slam poetry. Clearly, I'm not hanging onto that phone number."
Not that I expected better service from the Sprint store, but I was decidedly pissed off and annoyed that I'd spent so much of my Valentine's day dealing with bullshit about my cell phone. Valentine's Day is for getting drunk, pigging out, and mocking couples, not getting screwed in negotiations with the idiots that Sprint employs. Fuck you, Sprint. I'll show your insidious asses in two years when my contract expires. Just you wait.
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