Do not shop at New York & Company!
I hate that store right now with the passion of a million crazed Hannah Montana fans. They were very, VERY snotty to your friend Swishy and now I think they're going to come to my house and throw eggs at my windows and cut the brake lines in my car.
So. They have this newish return thing where your receipt expires after 60 days and then allegedly you can't get your money back anymore. UNLESS you say you don't have a receipt. Then they'll give you money. The whole thing is completely backward and stupid.
Well, I had a receipt that "expired" in October. BUT ... I had been told that I could take back the clothes with the expired receipt and, while I wouldn't get actual money back, I could get store credit instead. Fine with me. So that's what I try to do. The girl starts doing it, and then is like, "Um, it calculated the sales tax wrong on your receipt. So I can't do it anymore."
I don't really get how their machine calculating my sales tax wrong is my problem, but I'm like, fine, give me your customer service number and I will call them and find out what to do. So she does and I do. I explain to the customer service rep what the deal is, and she's like, just return the item without your receipt and you'll get your money back. OK. I really want to go home, but I'm like, I'm already here, the bag's been sitting in my car for three weeks, just go back and do it.
So I do.
Me: Hey, I'm back. She told me to just return it without the receipt.
Girl at store: But you HAVE a receipt.
Me (flashing big smile): Not anymore!
Girl: But I KNOW you do.
Me: Look. Give me a lighter, and I'll burn the receipt right in front of you. Will that help?
Girl: But ... but ... you HAVE a receipt!
Me (still smiling): Not anymore, I don't.
Girl: I need to call customer service.
So she calls customer service and whispers into the phone. Then she asks me my name, which I REALLY don't think is pertinent here, but I tell her anyway, because I am trying to be pleasant and agreeable. And then she whispers some more and the whole time I am thinking, this is SO NOT WORTH THE TWENTY BUCKS. But there is a principle at work here, and I am a woman of principles, so when she hands the phone to me I take it and begin speaking to the person who shall be known henceforth as the Bitch on the Phone (BOP).
BOP: We don't do returns.
Me: You don't do returns at ALL? Really?
Me: At ALL.
BOP: Well, not if you have a receipt.
Me: I don't have a receipt.
BOP: We still can't do it.
Me: Why not?
BOP: Because you have a receipt.
Me: OK. Let's say, for the sake of argument, I DON'T have a receipt. Can you do the return?
Me: That's not what they just told me on the phone.
BOP: Well, you called the wrong number.
Me: No, I didn't.
BOP: Yes, you did.
(I read the number to her and we confirm that, yes, in fact, I called the right number.)
BOP: Well, we still can't do the return if the item doesn't have tags.
Me: It DOES have tags.
BOP: Are they attached?
Me: No, but they're in the bag.
BOP: Then we can't do the return.
Me: OK, can you read me the part of your return policy where it talks about tags?
Me: No, you can't, or no, there's not a part that talks about tags? Because I just read your policy, and I didn't see anything about that.
BOP: This conversation is over.
Me: I'm sorry?
BOP: I'm done talking to you.
Me: Are you serious?
BOP: I have nothing left to say to you.
Me: Well ... what should I do?
BOP: THIS CONVERSATION IS OVER.
Me: OK, I really don't appreciate the attitude you're getting with me right now.
BOP: What's your name?
Me: I'm sorry, how is that relevant?
BOP: I need to know who I'm talking to.
Me: What's YOUR name?
BOP: I don't have to give that information out. (Pauses.) Swishy Swisherstein? Is that right?
Me: That's none of your business.
BOP: I am done talking to you.
Me: You know, for someone who supposedly works in customer service, you have a lot to learn about customer service. This is absolutely ridiculous.
And that's when she hangs up on me. And now, because I am completely paranoid, I am convinced she got my name to a) access my credit card info, which she will now use to buy rainbow-colored vibrators and boxes of Chippendale calendars for all her friends or b) find out where I live and hire a scary man in a Scream mask to hide in my closet and slash my pretty little neck when I get home.
Either way, it's not good.