Let’s just say it has been a tough week. I went to my Grandma’s
funeral last weekend, which was particularly
gut wrenching and difficult in and of itself, also way too emotional and terrifying to discuss right now (under this node title).
My “new” van stalled out in the middle of rush hour traffic, leaving me searching franticly for the hazard lights (which I have never had to use before). There I was, freaking out in a flurry of middle fingers and screeching tires and wiper blades sweeping fast and slow, my car ignoring repeated screaming of, “NO NO NO, bad car! Bad bad car! No, wait, I love you vanny, you are my ride! That’s right, you big red luvvy! You are the ONLY RIDE, I love you beastie please start!” Key in the ignition, car in drive, NOTHING. “Come on you big red piece of…Wait, wait. I mean, one more try baby, you can do it!” And sure enough, as long as I kept up the schmooze my silly van would go, and go it did, all the way to my therapy appointment, scheduled at the last minute, even though I had ended my sessions due to complete sanity.
All I wanted was a nice glass of wine. Wine that isn’t so spendy it feels like I’m drinking a big glass of wasted money, or so cheap it tastes like a big glass of acid reflux. My dear husband went and got me a bottle of Rosemount Shiraz Cabernet, which is actually my favorite and managed to strike that delicate balance I was looking for.
I opened the bottle, a feat in itself. The bottle has been recently redesigned, which means my good bottle opener no longer fits over the lip, so I have to use the shitty opener, which always leaves a hurty indentation in my thumb. Also they are using these crappy rubberized corks which I am not partial to. I pour myself a glass in the darkened kitchen, and sipped from it while walking up the darkened hallway into the living room, where, what does my palate sense, but a foreign particle, sharp and alien. Disgusted I spit my wine back into the glass and bring it up to light, only to find that there was a pale crescent floating there, mocking me. I fished it out and glared at it, dinner lurching in my gut. I brought it up to the light and I find a nail, torn and ragged, stained purple around the edges, with one side almost see-through where one layer separated from the rest. The wax from the bottle is a coin shaped circle that rests on the top of the cork, which was sitting on the counter in its entirety. This was not wax. This was not my nail (finger or toe).
I had to go out to the dumpster and find the receipt, which was, rather fortunately, right on top and easily accessible. Or else I may never have had the lovely conversation with “John” the Big Bear “wine steward”, wherein he informed me that Big Bear did not do this to me and they don’t give cash refunds for “booze”. He tried to get me a new bottle, even after I pointed out the other particles floating in the old bottle, as well as the nail. I was not interested in the toe-nail batch. He insisted the nail was wax because it was flexible. At this point I remembered the age-old advice, “Never argue with a moron.”
I proceeded to say, in clearest I-could-make-this-really-uncomfortable-for-you, taking-care-of-business tone, “You will refund me, in cash, at this moment, without hesitation, or I will tell every one I can think of how poorly your store has handled this disgusting situation.”
I did walk out with cash in hand, which I used to purchase the same bottle of wine from a different establishment, where it was two and a half dollars less expensive and the real wine steward expressed the proper sympathy and even managed to make me laugh. He commented that Rosemount has been tinkering with a new wine/cheese combo but has not managed as of yet to put their best foot forward.
HAHAHAHAHA! That guy gets my business from now on.