How to Neuter a Dragon in Two Words

Back when I started getting an interest in jewelry, roughly the same time I garnered an interest in a particular brunette, I started a relationship with a particular jewelry store. Now at this time, I didn't know anything about the shiny, sparkly things that put the fairer species in to a mental schizophrenic hypnotic state. All I really knew of gold was that it was in them-thar-hills.

So I went out on a limb to this particular store for the first big purchase, a simple little emerald solitaire that served two purposes: 1) it let me know her ring size for a later propositional purpose (wink, wink, nudge, nudge), and 2) it bought me lots of kisses not of the chocolate variety. Fast forward to the wedding rehearsal where I gave her a matching bracelet, naturally from the same store. Because of the value of this gift (not specifically monetary - this is the same girl that had an anxiety attack when she lost my class ring, my high school class ring), it only gets worn on special occasions, probably not even a dozen appearances in the seven years of betrothal bondage.

Now this particular retail vacuum does the warranty plans where you bring the jewelry to them once every six months and they clean and inspect your jewelry. I, in my ever infinite cheapness wisdom, elected not to get the warranty with the bracelet, knowing that it wasn't going to be worn often and, when it was, we weren't exactly going to be re-roofing the house or practicing aikido.

This July was the time to get the gold, frankicense, and myrrh inspected and cleaned, and we received the Furrowed Brow from Frau Farbissina behind that counter - a diamond was missing from the bracelet. Sure enough, she was right. No biggie, as it was an accent diamond and wouldn't cost much to get it replaced. As this was a mall location, they didn't have a gemologist or jeweler there to do the repairs. The Jeweler would be in on Friday (it was Wednesday) and we should hear something back by that evening, which by my calculation would still be Friday evening.

Friday comes and goes. Monday, I find myself facing the Spanish Inquisition from She Who Must Be Obeyed if I Wish to Get (edited) - "Did the store call?" 1st uh-oh. At that time, I had just finished turning my front and back yards into a putting green and was drenched in sweat, so I was a little unusually belligerent, something that a quick shower would cure. I asked that she call to check up on The Gift while I powdered my nose, underarms, and a few other areas I shouldn't mention.

A few minutes of lathering wonderfulness later, she entered, stage right - "They said the diamond would be $40 (no problem there) and that there were cracks on two of the emeralds." 2nd uh-oh. "What cracks?!" - I cracked, knowing that the last time I saw The Gift, it was not obvious to my "Mad Eye" Moody set of eyes. She shrugged, assuming in her charmingly naive way that they knew what they were talking about and that they were being honest.

It was going to go down last night. When my lady returned from a long day of work, she asked the whereabouts and whatfors of her sprackly wrist thingie. As I had just finished being turned in to bantha poo-doo (I was playing Star Wars: Battlefront), I was ready for a little showdown with a snooty store manager - we still hadn't been called! In the words of Indigo Montoya, "There will be blood tonight!"

Before I get to the killshot, let me inform you, dear reader, that I am not a Wal Mart yeller. I am crafty, calm, and kill with kindness and facts. I am also merciless when I am in the right, a master debater that will not stop until I have eviscerated the opponents arguments and they have started refering to me as daddy.

There are just two little words that I never, ever expect to hear that I heard last night. Two little words that just take all the viss and pinegar out of me and can reduce me to a weak sounding "Okay."

I'm sorry. The first words out of the manager's mouth, followed immediately by a proactive way to remedy the situation. For all my huff and puff, I stood there in front of my princess, phone to my ear, myself, a neutered dragon. At the end of it all, the most I ever was able to give him was the facts of the situation (we hadn't been called and had to initiate all communication; the emerald wasn't apparently cracked when last we saw it) and a meager "thank you."

Today, after work, I pick up the replacement bracelet (!) without paying a cent.