Well Heeled * July 12, 2007

Dear Fellow Consumers,

    From my closet I pulled a pair of my highest, sharpest stilettos and strapped them on.   
   
    “Why are you putting on high heels?” Sherwood, my husband of twenty-eight years, asked.

    “Because we’re going into battle.”  I pulled a suit jacket over my yellow knit top.

    “It’s pretty hot for a jacket. Don’t you think?”

    “Sherwood, dear man, nothing says, ‘I want my money back’ like stilettos and a Liz Claiborne suit jacket.”

    I checked my makeup and threw a mock pink crocodile hobo bag over my shoulder.

    “Let’s go.”

      This was war and I was not going to lose.  We crammed the defective four hundred and sixty dollar (two year extended warranty included) Hewlet Packard Officejet Pro scanner, printer, fax, and copier machine into the truck.  Once again we had been the victims of the global market place.  Less than twenty-four hours earlier, I had purchased with cold hard American credit a new copy machine to replace the old copy machine that had been blown to toast by lightning—while I was standing next to it. So this was a purchase of desperate necessity, because I make a lot of copies of stuff—my writing, my sketches, my last will and testament.

    And the new Hewlet Packard Officejet Pro scanner, printer, fax, and copier fresh out of the box—did not work.  It didn’t even pretend to work.  So back it had to go.

    “Give me the keys.  I’ll drive.”

    “Slow down, General Patton.  I’m driving.”  Sherwood drove.  I fumed and prepared my opening salvo.

    The girl underneath the ‘Customer Service’ sign snapping her gum didn’t have a chance.

    “Hi, my name is Linda Zern and I’m not a happy customer.”  The gum snapper snapped to attention, her eyes widening.  I did not slow down.  “Yesterday I bought a four hundred and sixty dollar copy machine here for my business, and it does not work.  Now I know that this unfortunate turn of events is not your fault, or my fault, or the fault of some poor slave chained to a factory wall in China, and yet and still the machine does not work.  I find this situation beyond frustrating and I want no silliness from this fine establishment.  Do you understand? Now, what can you do for me?”

    Her hand trembled as she pointed toward the back of the store.  “Just leave the bad one and go get a new one.”

    I spun on my pointy heels. 

    When I found a young man to locate a replacement copier I opened my second salvo.  “Young man, this is the situation.  I purchased a very expensive copy machine and it is defective.  Now I know that this unfortunate turn of events is not your fault, or my fault, or the fault of some poor slave chained to a factory wall in China, and yet and still the machine does not work.   I am not happy, and  I can’t seem to find another copier to replace the piece of junk I purchased in good faith from this store only yesterday, what can you do for me?”  His hand trembled as he pushed a very large ladder up to a top shelf where a stack of very heavy HP Officejet Pro waited. 
 
    I noticed Sherwood’s frown.  “You think that I’m being too hard on the troops.” It was not a question.

    “I think that you’re a bit testy.”

    With raised eyebrows I asked the young man bent double under my new copier.  “My husband thinks that I’m being too testy.  What do you think?”

    His hand tremble increased as he steadied the huge box.  “I think that you are a person who wants what she paid for.”

    “Excellent answer, young man, proceed.”  He lumbered towards customer service.

    “Do you think that he’s afraid of me?” I asked Sherwood.

    “I’m afraid of you.”

    “Good.”   I marched up to customer service, my stilettos tapping a determined rhythm.  Without a word, the young woman made the switch and handed me a new receipt.  “Young lady, I want to thank you for not making me have to mud wrestle you over this transaction.”  She cracked a smile.  “And if I were you I would say your prayers that this machine is not also defective.”  She crossed herself.

    We left.  The new copier is perfect.

     I give all the credit to my shoes.  Nothing says ‘Don’t mess with my feet or me’ like sharp, pointy shoes.  When Condi Rice wore a pair of black, spiked leather boots the media spent a month analyzing her high powered footwear, and how about that witch in The Wizard of Oz that got the house dropped on her; we’re still talking about her shoes.  I know the truth.  Any woman who is prepared to endure the pain, discomfort, and unnatural spinal position that high heels require will not hesitate to fling herself over a customer service desk and throttle the teenager running the cash register.  It’s like having two Rottweilers on your feet.  I love my high heels—also they make me taller.

    So, tip of the week, if you want action don’t wear flip flops.

Linda (I have bunions older than you!) Zern 
   

   

    

         

        

 

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