Cartier, Schmartier

It is Saturday morning. Cartier opens at 10. I will be waiting when the guard unlocks the door.

The kids and I are heading to Scott's this afternoon for a few hours of fun on the water and a day at the beach tomorrow. I need to get this out of the way or my next opportunity to do so, given Cartier's user-hostile store hours, will be weeks away. And I can't wear the cheesy, large-faced, bedazzled, day-glo watch I picked up at the Miami airport a few years back for $10 much longer and still maintain any sense of credibility or dignity.

I think about my last experience at Cartier and carefully consider how to dress. I would love to prance in dressed to the nines and wearing to-die-for, impractical, breathtakingly expensive heels, so the House of Cartier runs around like a bunch of serfs hoping for the commission on my next purchase until I dash their hopes with my clutch-the-pearls, woeful customer service tale. But to Hell with that. I have a boat to board and I am not stepping into a phone booth to change between trips.

I choose a very impressive pair of Bermuda shorts Charlotte gave me, a crisp impeccable white T, and good sandals. I do put on some decent jewelry and moderately make up my face. I am seeing Scott later, I am not interested in looking like a hag to make a point. I can go from Cartier to Marina without an outfit change. I can't believe I actually am thinking about this for longer than a nano-second.

All the way to the Mall, I am practicing what I will say to Frances about her unnamed, freeze-dried colleague that will have her frothing at the mouth with competitive adrenaline. At the light midway there, I check my purse for the reciept that they warn you you must have with you, and ID by the way, to collect the items you left in their trust.

They'd keep my watch if I lost this stupid thing? Thank God I didn't go on a recent purse purging spree. I'd have quite a fight on my hands.

It is then that I notice that the receipt has a little more information on it than I'd first noticed. In fact, it has the name of the heretofore unnamed clerk who made me feel like a bum when I first appeared at the their guarded gates.

You'd think I'd be pleased to be able to dime out the dry-cleaned snob who made me feel unworthy. But I am not.

Because the clerk is Frances, the meek clerk who called me the other day. And I suddenly feel badly about my plans to rat on her with the perfect blend of wit and meanness.

I am torn as I enter Cartier and am greeted by the guard. I can see two clerks at the far counter and squint to see if there is a reason to choose one over the other. I.e. one is a manager and the other is a trainee or something similar.

As I walk nearer I can see the clerks exchange glances and one is walking away looking like she would like to avoid me. And I realize it is Frances, with the rafia-esque hair and frown lines.

She sees me noticing the exchange and actually looks sheepish at having been caught trying to dodge me.

So I quietly clear my throat and put on my best buttery smooth First Lady voice. As I walk decisively toward the other clerk, who oddly, is carrying her purse on her shoulder as she works, I smile at Frances and say, "Yes, please do walk away, Frances." (She seems shocked that I can identify her by name.) "I have no burning desire to talk with you either."

Clerk number 2 with the purse seems confused but her smile never leaves her face. She competently and and without inquiring about Frances handles my transaction. It is uneventful. At the end of the transaction, she thanks me and I thank her, adding, "You've been a pleasure to deal with, which can't be said of your friend Frances."

She asks, "Was there a problem?"

I reply, "Not with the watch, but certainly with Frances. I don't need to elaborate, but Frances needs to learn the value of a customer, even if they present in your store dressed for a picnic. I don't come here to be judged."

"I understand," Clerk 2 with Purse replies.

I hope she does. And really, that is all I need. I need someone to understand. Like Oprah at Hermes in Paris, people aren't always what they appear to be. It doesn't mean people get to treat you badly.

With my beautiful watch back on my wrist and my point made, I get back in my car to join my kiddos and Scott for a day of smooth sailing.