Why Verizon Should Give Me a New Phone

It's quite simple really. It doesn't work.

I'll start by listing the many other things I could have spent my money on: two over-flowing tanks of gas, tickets to see Wicked, gray wedge-heeled boots, a weekend's worth of tequila shots, 100 songs from iTunes, a night at a hotel in NYC or health insurance.

But no. I declined all of these things to purchase the EnV2. Don't get me wrong, it's infintely better than the horse pile of wires called the Palm Treo. I appreciate more than anything not having that worthless device anymore. (Acutally, it's still in my posession, and if you are in great need of a horse pile of wires it's on craigslist for $100.) I do love the fact that it works like a normal phone and doesn't have epillepsy or schizophrenia or bi-polar disorder and all the other issues notorious of the Treo. But it does have narcilepsy. (More on that in a minute...)

Here's the thing: two years ago I purchased the Palm Treo half-price for $400. I thought I was the stuff because it was like a laptop in my pocket, which is cool when you're moving out of your parents house for the first time. What no one told me was that I couldn't download games or ringtones, recieve or make calls, and the battery would only last two hours. The fine print sucks.

Anyway, I figured since I was paying so much for the phone, I'd want it to have a camera, and the store I was at didn't have that model so they had to send out to get it. And there enlies my problem - during the time it was being ordered, I moved across the country so the phone got shipped to the store, then to my parents who sent it to me. By the time I recieved the phone it had been about three weeks since I bought it and four or five days after that, I decided it was a horse pile of wires and wanted a refund or exchange.

After four eighty-minute round-trip visits to the corporate store in a span of one week, I still had the horse pile of wires on my passenger seat, mocking me with it's flashing battery light. It must have known that even though I'd only owned it for a couple of days, on paper it was really four weeks and therefore the window for returning it had expired. It also must have called the store behind my back and arranged for them all to tell me different things so I'd have to spend an entire week driving around trying to get rid of it.

It began to haunt me like those creepy children in scary movies that wait in old houses for unsuspecting innocent people to move in so they can posess them with their demon powers. (In fact, I even named it Damian.) The innocent people either die trying to get rid of the Satan-children or are forever scarred because of the curse they've been consumed with. And the people at the Verizon store in the 'Customer Service' department are the ones that serve their customers to the psycho toddlers just to see them writhe in their own personal hell of calling 1-800 numbers for all enternity.

Steven King will steal this from me eventually, but you read it here first.

Back to my EnV2... So finally I had the funds to semi-permanently rid myself of the horse pile of wires (semi because no one else wants it) and I enjoyed my new LG for about four months. Maybe three. Suddenly, it contracted narcilepsy. I made a rule that my phone was not allowed to shut-off without my permission, but it persisted. I tried time-outs, physical abuse and trips to the 'doctor' (yet another corporate store) and it still didn't phase the EnV2. I think I deserve the new phone just for sticking with these people for another full two-year contract after the way they treated me in 2007!

Do you see what I mean about being cursed? Freaking Damian.

I've come to the conclusion that Verizon is endangering my life: if you've seen my earlier post about all of the sex offenders in Rochester, you well know what a dangerous, medium-sized city I live in. Plus the 12 gun-shot victims in the past week that I read in the Democrat and Chronicle just today. So let's say that, since I work toward the city, someone is waiting for me when I leave work and am walking through the dark parking lot by myself (which happens frequently) and one of these creeps jumps me, chloroforms me and sticks me in his trunk.

I wake up some time later and am slightly disoriented by my strange surroundings and the sudden throbbing in my skull. I hear low voices in the next room. I try to silently call for help, but my phone has turned itself off. I have to turn it on, and the Verizon 'welcome' music radiates off the walls and into the other room where all of the men are deciding my fate. When they hear the sound, the desicion is made.

They shoot me in the face, slice my heart out and shove it down my throat before decapitating me. Who knows what they do with my headless corpse! I don't. I'm dead by this point. All thanks to Verizon not giving me a new phone.

Thanks a lot, Verizon, for shooting me in the face, slicing my heart out, decapitating and most likely violating me.

Can you hear me now?

-SGG

A Painful Realization

A couple of days ago I did what I am notorious for: I went to Target to get some dresses and walked out with a coat and a scarf. But, to my defense, I absolutely fell for the coat. It's a faux silk fabric that can stand up to the harsh Rochester elements, a fantastic jewel-toned purple that compliments my new auburn haircolor, and it's a trench so it will be in style for a couple years.

I seem to have forgotten to mention that this particular Mossimo masterpiece was half-off.

I built an outfit around this dress for an upcoming vacation, and even texted some of my friends, bragging about the find. When I went to bed that night, I was still dreaming up different looks that my coat could be the focal point of. Boots, stilettos, flats; skinny jeans, leggings, tights; blue, green, gray...

This morning I was excited to premiere my coat, call it a dress-rehearsal for my vacation (in five days!). Underneath it I wore a bright blue dress, the scarf with cool-pallette colors to tie the two pieces together, brown suede pumps to offset the shiny purple fabric, and my oversize red bag. I looked in the mirror and approved initially, but as I was leaving the house, I caught a quick glimpse in the door window and saw Willy Wonka's wife.

I got in my car and started the engine, dismissing that thought immediately. When I got to my destination, I began to second-guess my attire again. (Triple-guess?) It hit me that this is October in Western New York - colors are no longer permitted under penalty of judgmental stares. I walked in the building and, just as I had surmised, everyone was wearing neutral colors, so perfect to match the seasonal foliage.

I began to feel like an outcast and suddenly all of these people I knew well were strangers. Thankful for my new haircolor, I hoped no one would recognize me and kept my head down. So I sat, quiet and miserable, wondering what kinds of things they were all thinking about their friend, Mrs. Wonka and her outrageous wardrobe. I was preparing myself for the steady stream of jokes about the new hairdo and "I know we told you that you never wear any color, but that doesn't mean you have to wear them all at once!" -type remarks, when I recalled what a real stranger told me two years ago.

If you read my personal information in my profile, you will find an excerpt that mentions a man I met on a 27-minute plane ride who gave me the most precious and personal advice. To summarize, I had revealed a couple things to him that suggested I never 'live on the edge' or 'grab life by the horns' or anything else beer commercials tell us to do. If I was told not to do something, I didn't question it, I just said 'ok' and sat down, zipped my lips and forgot the whole thing.

What happened that changed my life was this: the man got up from his seat and began saying his goodbyes, but before getting off at his stop never to be seen again, he leaned over and said,

"Do me a favor, honey: stop being such a chicken shit."

He threw his coat over his shoulder and walked out of my life. Real James Dean-like.

And so I sat, the modern-day Scarlett O'Hara, having reality dumped upon me and being too stunned to react. If I had known he'd had such a knack for good advice I wouldn't have spent the preceeding 27 minutes talking about Canada or the New Orlean's Saints post-Katrina or what's that guy's name from that show that got canceled in the 90s? I would have had so many things to to ask him! Countless little worries or doubts I had that needed the opinion of someone so sure of himself that he just gave impeccable gems of wisdom to complete strangers as if they were Tic-Tacs.

But then I realized the only reason I would need someone like that is if I didn't take his advice, and as I continued my flight after he'd gotten off I mentally ran through my entire life, wishing I'd had those words echoing in my head years before they were actually spoken.

To pair this advice with another droplet of insight given me by a friend only a couple of days ago, who texted me, "Stay confident, that's what men like," you could say I've had a pretty eventful morning of rude awakenings.

So I challenge myself, and anyone reading this, to put on the 'purple coat' of confidence and dare someone to call you Mrs. Wonka ever again! The next time I wear that coat, it will be because I wanted to buy it because I fell in love with it and if heads turn, they turn. If people talk, let them be jealous of my guilty pleasure. If they want to criticize, be glad you stirred up the dust that they let settle by being passive and inactive.

And if no one even notices, well, that's great too, because we did something for ourselves and no one else.