Publically Pregnant

So today is a good day: we had an appointment with the OB and my cervix is long and strong, the babies are kicking around growing well and my worry-o-meter should be fed for the next week or so. My appointments are scheduled every two weeks, but I notice that I only seem to be able to make it about a week before my outer shell of resilience is worn through and every little thing becomes a potential symptom to get hysterical about. My docs know this and understand, and so I schedule with them every two weeks but there is a tacit agreement that if I start going mental before that, I just call the office staff and they squeeze me in. So far, it has been an appointment every 5-7 days or so. So be it.

So, today should be a good day. But apparently there is something more going on with me today than just post-traumatic stress worrying, something terrifically hormonal and very, well, pregnant. I am just extremely, extremely emotional today. Everything is making me edgy and weepy, from TV commercials to the way my new haircut looks to the woman working at the kitchen-wares store where we stopped on the way home from the doctor's to return a flawed holiday gift.

My lovely mother has been trying to buy a wine decanter for my husband for more than a year now. She keeps asking what kind he wants, and he offers nebulous mutterings, avoiding a firm answer. So this Christmas, Mom simply went out and bought him one at a local store. And after one use, and with no egregious bumpings of any kind, the thing cracked. Oft.

So back we bundle it into its original packaging, complete with gift receipt, and bring it back to the store for a refund on a flawed product. And by we, I mean me because I'm the one who typically handles these kinds of interactions for our family. I approach the counter with my box and gift receipt and explain the situation to the saleswoman who comes over to "help" us.

Actually, it turns out, this woman didn't come over to help us; she came over to say "can't " to us. I have a real aversion to people like this under normal circumstances, but apparently I am REALLY put out by people like this when I am under the hormonal influence.

"I remember inspecting this item before it left the store. It didn't leave the store like this." These are the first words our friendly customer service representative speaks to me after I explain why I am here. She then goes to consult another store worker, who says, loudly enough for Bruno and I to hear "The store was really busy that day. There was a huge line. I got the item off the shelf for the woman but I have no idea whether it was damaged or not."

Our gal returns and flatly says to me "I can't return this." I suggest that we could just exchange it for another of the same kind. "We don't have any more" she crows. Bruno pipes in that he would consider taking a different kind. "We don't sell any others" our saleswitch lobbies back.

Why do people like this chose to work in customer service industries?

I remind her that her boss has said that the store was too busy that day to properly have checked out the object, and that we are assuring her that we did not mishandle it. She snaps as her only response, "That's not my boss." Oh, I truly dislike people who delight in saying no to everything, who refuse to think around corners, who have no interest in satisfying their customers. I can feel my rising hysteria, disproportionate to the, albeit frustrating, not in any way tear-worthy situation. And yet I feel the tears a comin'. I push away from the counter, say to Bruno, "I'm pregnant....I can't...can you...?" and head toward the exit. I flee the scene before I become disastrously inappropriate (images of knocking the decanter off the counter, enjoying the sounds and sights of its shattering, and leaving this stringy haired she-hag to clean up the mess have flitted through my hormonally afflicted mind), and I hear our friendly representative growl, "What did she say?!"

I pace the cool streets trying not to cry, reminding myself of the relative importance of successfully returning this decanter in the face of all else. I'm doing OK, until Bruno pops out of the store moments later, waving a small white piece of paper. He takes one look at my face and bursts out laughing, which causes me to burst out crying. "I hate people who say can't so much!" I wail. "I know," he comforts, as he takes me into his arms, continuing to laugh. "Let's get you fed," he suggests.

On the way home, he explains that we now a have a store credit for the full amount of the decanter and that, upon hearing that I was pregnant, the woman apologized to Bruno for upsetting me. I stew for a bit about why we couldn't just have gotten the freakin' refund for my Mom, and then Bruno reminds me of the good doctor's report we've just had, and assures me that I'll feel a lot better after lunch.

And as always, he is right.