Truth and Honesty

About a week later, we received a voice mail from our original Cincinnati salesperson, Lady Highbrow. She wanted to make sure we had made it in to place our order—as the “cutting it too close” time was upon us—and to wish us continued luck in the planning of our wedding.

I thought that seemed nice of her and left her a return message a couple days later, stating that we had been in and had placed the order with another associate. I thanked her for all her help and thought that was the end.

A few days later, I received a call from her again. First, she thanked me for the return call and was glad everything was going well for us (well sort of going well, as you are learning). She probably offered a couple other niceties, and then it was time for business.

“Did you ask for me when you came in? I’m asking, because I was there. So I’m just curious if you asked for me. We are working on a truth and honesty policy at work,” she said.

I replied, “We said we had been helped by you, although we didn’t have your card and didn’t remember your name at the moment. We described you and the woman helping us said your name, and we said ‘that’s her.’ She said you were at lunch at the moment.”

“So you didn’t ask for me by name?” she asked in follow-up.

“Well, we didn’t ask literally, but we determined who you were and that you were at lunch. We then told her that we needed to place an order for the wedding bands we had picked out, and if she could help us do that, that would be great.”

She interjected comments along the lines of: “Sorry, this is unusual to ask these questions.”

But she really wanted to know whether we had asked for her by name, as that was apparently the key criterion in the potential violation of the truth and honesty policy. It seemed she never quite got the exact phrasing from us that could make her case ironclad.

As I reflect, I still debate whose behavior was more unsavory. The one who pretended a coworker was at lunch and stole an extremely easy sale—or the one who called the customer at home to try and make a case against her mischievous coworker. In a moment of self-centered greed, I’ve secretly stolen a French fry from Christa’s value meal, but this was a whole new level. Yes, the pretty blue box had lost a little luster, but I am still available for endorsement deals.
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival

Whose Lobster?

“I wish we had made the inscription say My Lobster,” Christa said. “That is much more personal.”

The glory of being the 25-percent-down owners of Tiffany wedding bands had faded so quickly away.

“Let’s call them and tell them to change it,” I said.

“It’s probably too late.”

“Let’s call and find out. They had to send it to New York for the engraving; it can’t be there yet,” I said.

“I don’t think they are going to let us change it,” she said dejectedly.

“Like they’re going to ignore us; we’re the customers.”

Wait. Let me rephrase that in more descriptive terms. Surely, having confirmed our status as two-time, four-figure Tiffany shoppers, not last-minute-holiday, shiny-stocking-stuffer shoppers, but true aficionados of partial-carat diamonds, they could make that change for us. I placed the call and described our problem.

“Well, sir, once we put it on paper and send it, it’s hard to make changes. You see—because we wrote it on paper,” they replied.

It felt like they were describing the abortion of a space mission, but in an archaic, yet surprisingly well-to-do manner.

Unfortunately, helping us add two letters to each of our inscriptions, a twenty-dollar value, caused them to have to reprocess the entire order, thereby invalidating the financing agreement, whereupon they tried to charge the entire balance to my credit card, which was declined, because it put me over my limit. It took several calls to get my accounts back in order. On top of which, they were still noncommittal about whether they could actually make the change in the inscription.

“We can try and accommodate you, but the order is already on the way to New York,” they continued.

Do they have phones there? Is there an order number you could use for tracking and referral? Did you send it by flying donkey? Don’t flying donkeys have pagers? I couldn’t imagine this was as hard as it seemed.

They made a point of saying several times, “We can’t promise you anything. It’s already left our store.”

They acted like there was a black hole that orders got tossed into. Have we told you the story of our invitations? We greatly preferred not to sit around and wait while our doomsday-prognosticating vendors tried to help us out.

Only when they called back and said our order was in, and I asked, “Were you able to make the inscription change?” did they congratulate themselves and say, “Yes, we were able to accomplish that for you.”
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival

Grumblings in Kingdom Tiffany

At the prescribed time to place our order for our wedding bands, we returned to Tiffany. The ritual sparkle gazing and engagement ring cleaning took place, and we headed to the marital display. A different representative was at the counter, and this was our conversation, as I recall it. The specifics will become important later. I will change the names, because it seems like I’m really telling you something important if I do.

“Hi. We are here to order our wedding bands. We had been dealing with someone, but we forgot her name and don’t have her card with us.”

“What did she look like?” asked the new agent of class, Ida B. Sneaky.

“She was a bit older than you, shoulder-length brownish hair,” I said.

“Was it Lady Guinevere (look at the unkempt rapscallions ogling the jewels) Highbrow?”

“Yes, that’s her. Is she here today?” I inquired.

“I’m sorry. I believe she is at lunch,” she said, glancing around and licking her fangs.

“Well, we really just need to place the order for our wedding bands. So if you can help us with that, that would be great.”

“Certainly, I can, sir.” A devilish perkiness in her voice.

We found the rings we had picked out before and got measured for size once more, to be safe. At this point, we also chose to inscribe our wedding bands with the word “Lobster,” in a font that truly symbolized our relationship and reflected well on the classiness of the ring retailer. We also snagged three initial necklaces for the female attendants, which seemed like a good deal, relative to all our other purchases, as would be expected from items normally kept in the so-called “Commoner’s Pavilion.”

However, Christa was concerned, first, that certain initials were taller (I’d like to call it pendant envy, but I’d be tricking myself into thinking I’m clever) and, second, that some letters were prettier.

I can’t imagine one of them saying, “Oh that b tops my k; I wish you were never born, you ugly initial-necklace giver.” They are simpletons like us. Surely they will simply relish having a Tiffany necklace, won’t they?

Who would prefer a letter that wasn’t their initial, pretty or not? They’re not changing their names for a piece of jewelry. Why do you think the b is so good anyway?

Interestingly enough, Christa agreed to change her name under the influence of a piece of jewelry, so I may need to rethink all of this crazy talk.

The next day, trouble struck again.
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival

THE WEDDING SCRAMBLE - THE WEDDING BANDS - Marriage of the Rings

The planning timeline told us it was nearly time to get our wedding rings picked out. This was an enjoyable task for her. First, let me speak on the matching of the rings. If you go to the big T for the engagement ring, you better believe you are going back for the wedding band. It is the only material item from your wedding that remains with you every day, so we decided to stretch our budget.

“It just wouldn’t look right with anything else,” Christa calmly stated.

I am sure Tiffany knows this, as they were very accommodating on financing and made sure I had multiple copies of my representative’s card. At this time, we were in Cincinnati and had to visit our local store. Our initial idea was to get matching rings, with “our” meaning that I nodded my head in agreement. Having seen lots of designers’ models in bridal magazines and other publications, I was confident my preferred style was a simple solid band—no edges, no grooves, no stones, no laser-etched angels frolicking in fields of dew-glistened wheat. This sounded good to her until…

We entered the store, received a hello from the plainclothes security guard, and smelled the excessive margins wafting through the air like beer brats at a tailgate. Every Tiffany adventure began with a courtesy tour of the super-sparkle counter, where the value of an Ivy League education existed in each display. I think something like this could be her “happy place.” Perhaps high-quality diamonds would wash ashore like shells in the surf of her beach house on a tropical island.

The security guard provided all the real attention we got. We are not bad-looking people, and we don’t dress like circus folk, but we apparently don’t exude an aura of limitless credit cards and trust funds. We completed the circuit. She had noted the various “if we win the lottery” must haves. I felt bad about leaving a fingerprint on one of the display windows. Pointing is so impolite.

We were at the wedding-band counter and getting a sense of what we liked. There were only a handful of choices. I was steadfast in my preference for a solid ring. She had agreed, in principle, before surveying the merchandise. Then contact was made.

“Can I help you, or are you just playing today?” the sales rep said. Italics represent her voiced contempt. Precious time was being taken from her day, as she addressed mere mortals in the “obviously above your means” portion of the store.

“Yes, we need to select our wedding bands to, hopefully, match this lovely engagement ring we got at your San Diego store,” I said, holding out the partial-carat stunner.

Does this politely validate our presence in your store and make your time worthwhile? She almost smiled.

Then it happened. The Magic of the Sparkle took hold of Christa. First it was subtle, as she asked me, “Why don’t you try on a couple of other choices, just to see?”

She pointed at one with little diamond specks alternating around the band.

“No, I don’t like it as well. I like the plain one. Fairies twinkle; I’m merely shiny,” I replied.

I felt I had some authority here, as this was really about the only decision that affected or reflected solely on me. This was the ring that I would wear for the rest of time. In this process, she was getting 98 percent of the attention and had tried on a couple of diamond-embedded bands that looked fantastic.

“This one looks so beautiful. It compliments my engagement ring so well that they bring out the sparkle in each other,” she said with her eyes aflutter.

I could tell she had made up her mind, but her guilty conscience was getting the better of her. I am not certain if she believed she was breaking a promise, either to me or to her wedding vision of matching bands, or whether she felt bad that her ring had sparkles and mine didn’t.

“Are you sure you don’t mind, if they don’t match?” she asked apologetically.

“Get the one you want. I like mine. It is heavy. It is metal. It is man ring.”

There was the sense of “I hope you weren’t too sold on having matching rings. I know I said it was important, but those were stressful times, and I can say some crazy things under stress. Really, would you deny me the sparkle? Perhaps it is you who are breaking our bond of trust, opting for your man ring. I thought our pledge meant something.”

Whoa. I was getting myself in fictitious trouble there. I had better stop. I get in enough trouble in the real world.

We learned that we didn’t have to place the order for a couple weeks and decided to postpone any additional financial burden, until the last possible moment. Our ring info was jotted down on a business card and an order summary, and away we went: the lay folk who shopped Tiffany.
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival