Posted by Ilana Angel
Last week my iPhone 4S started to act up. I’ve only had it for a few weeks so I was unclear what the problem was so I made an appointment at the Genius Bar of my local Apple store. I went in and met with a genius. By genius of course I mean he appeared to about 12 and does not wash his hair. I explained my problem and he told me what was going on.
He took great care in making sure I understood what he was saying which was sweet, but I don’t speak Applese. I would have understood the exact same amount of words had be been speaking in Japanese. In fact, due to my sushi addiction, I would have understood Japanese more than I understood Applese. He was very was smart, but also very condescending with a mocking tone of voice.
I was grateful for his help so I thanked him for his expert advice and headed home to do what he suggested. The next day the problem continued so I made another appointment and headed back to meet another genius. This time around my genius was much older and super sweet. He knew the answer to every question and I was confident he would fix it.
He told me something completely different from the first guy and while I was annoyed I had to schlep back to the mall less than 48 hours later, I liked him even though I was being told I needed to go home and try something else. Important to note my phone is now officially not working. I must reboot constantly to get emails, and my music is not working.
I left the store, again, and went home to do what was asked of me. That brings us to today, when I went back for the 3rd time. My genius this time was a brand new person, but nice. By nice of course I mean devoid of any and all personality. So I’m talking to a robot and he proceeds to tell me something completely different than the other two geniuses.
To recap, this is my 3rd visit, 3rd time I’ve been told to go home to fix something, and the 3rd time some genius at Apple gave me a completely different excuse as to why my phone is not working. I explained to the genius that I was frustrated and his response put me over the edge. He told me there was nothing he could. He was a genus with no solution.
I ask to speak with his manager. A woman walks over who clearly has not had sex in a very long time, and I am almost certain I saw a small scar that would, after speaking with her, indicate she has had a frontal lobotomy. She looked at me with no direct eye contact, no emotion, and an unfortunate attitude. I felt like I was talking to a wall and got frustrated.
When she spoke to me, without looking at me, I told her she was being unprofessional. She then demanded to know what exactly I wanted her to do for me. I told her that I would appreciate it if she was a little less annoyed with me and that I wanted her to acknowledge that I had been given a bit of a run around with my phone.
She was unclear about what I wanted her to do. I told her I wanted my phone fixed, and she did not respond. I asked her, “Are you F’ing serious?” Important to note I started laughing and looking to my genius for back up. Then, in a surprising turn, she told me that I am not permitted so curse in an Apple store. Was she Serious? Was she my mom?
I started laughing when she told me I was not allowed to swear at Apple. I spend countless hours cursing out my iPhone, iPad, and Mac, yet I am not allowed to curse in her presence? I ask if I can speak with her manager and she tells me she is not there. I asked for her name and she hesitates, so I turn to my genius and ask who the manager is.
Lobotomy tells me the name and I ask her when she will next be in and she tells me she is not allowed to give me that information. I ask why not and she tells me it is her job to protect her employees and shoppers, and my choice of language was offensive to everyone and she is no longer going to help me. Had she even started to help me?
It took a nanosecond to recover then I asked her again if she was being serious. Was I being Punked? She then spits out at me “We’re done!” and signals for security. I am now standing in the middle of the Apple Store, looking at my genius, who is giving me a “that will teach you to screw with Apple” look, and security is making his way over.
I ask Ms. Lobotomy and what her name is, she gives me her business card, tells me to get out, gives the secret Apple head not to security, and I am being silently escorted out of the store. My iPhone is not working and they have not been able to fix it for a week. To clarify, I have had 3 visits to the genius bar and they are now refusing to help me.
I have spent a small fortune being loyal to this brand over the years, yet some idiot, who thinks a blue shirt makes her special, treats me like a child? I have had wonderful experiences with really wonderful people at my local Apple store, but this was insane and every good experience I ever had has been erased by what happened today.
I love my Apple products and I’m not giving them up, but I want someone at Apple to tell me they are sorry. I want the robot and the chick with the lobotomy to be reprimanded for their unprofessional, offensive, and unacceptable treatment of their customer. I want them to say sorry for how they dealt with me and I want my phone to be fixed.
I am quite certain I am not the first person to swear at the Apple store. In fact, I bet of all the stores in the world, people swear most often in an Apple Store. Furthermore, I have heard other people swear in the Apple store and have commiserated with them while they struggled to understand how someone can be a genius and moron at the same time.
Now I admit that using foul language is not appropriate in a place of business and I was wrong, but was there not a better way for Apple to handle the situation? If she had been kind I would have been calm, and there would not have been a problem. By not a problem of course I mean except for the fact that my phone is not working. My phone is still not working!
I am embarrassed I lost my cool and I would like to offer an apology to the employees of my Apple store and any other shoppers who may have been offended by my language. That said, had Apple fixed the problem the 1st time, or perhaps the 2nd time, this unfortunate incident could have been avoided. I am truly sorry however for offending anyone.
It’s funny I suppose, but at the end of the day I am upset. I was disrespected and treated unkindly. I was not aggressive, threatening, or confrontational. I simply wanted answers to my questions, and for the product they sold me to work. They are Apple, and I am but one person, but they need to fix my phone so I’m keeping the faith.
12.21.13 at 9:03 am |
12.19.13 at 2:57 am | My son has a free schlepping service.
12.12.13 at 8:05 am | Well played my son. Well played.
12.11.13 at 6:58 am | I watch in awe and stare with envy at these. . .
12.5.13 at 3:16 pm | Heaven has received a blessing today.
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9.15.13 at 3:14 pm | I love you Russell Brand. (390)
7.25.11 at 5:38 pm | We need more Jews! (283)
12.19.13 at 2:57 am | My son has a free schlepping service. (257)
June 5, 2012 | 10:13 pm
Posted by Ilana Angel
I am officially exhausted. I actually fell asleep today at the dentist. I was sitting in the waiting room, wondering why my dentist does not serve cocktails, and I dozed off. The hygienist who was going to clean my teeth had to give me a shake because I was out. I have been this tired since my son was a baby and I wanted to stare at him instead of sleep.
I remember when my son was little, I was working full time, on my own, getting virtually no sleep, and spent a lot of my time crying because I was so tired. As I drove home from the dentist today I started to cry. I was so tired I was not sure I even remembered how to drive so I pulled over and started bawling. It would have been funny if not so sad.
I am a single mom who works full time and writes on top of that. I am also a friend, girlfriend, daughter, and sister. I do it all, do it well, and try not to complain because in the big scheme of things I am blessed. That said, I am very, very tired. I would love to take a couple of days off to stay in bed but I simply do not have the time. No time to rest is pathetic.
Exhaustion is not a good thing and I find myself feeling a little sorry for myself. I looked at my laundry today and started to cry, wondering how it was possible that a house with only two people in it had so much laundry. I looked at the dishwasher and the thought of emptying it made me cry so I considered serving my son dinner over the sink with no plate.
It’s one of those days where I should hide from the world because my exhaustion could cause me to snap. I need to crawl under the covers and sleep, knowing that tomorrow will be better. The thing is I need to pick up my son, make him dinner, write a column, post a blog, and work on a project for one of my clients. I will not get sleep in the near future.
Have you ever been so tired that you can’t sleep? I am exhausted, yet I sat in bed last night unable to sleep. My mind was spinning about a million things yet I could not focus on anything. I need a vacation and the word vacation is up for interpretation. A night at the Four Seasons with room service would be a glorious vacation right now. Just one night would do it.
There is no guarantee I would sleep at the Four Seasons but I’m thinking being awake there probably has some relaxation value. I am now delirious with fatigue and not sure what I am writing so I better go. I hope you all sleep well. As for me I’d be happy with an hour. By hour of course I mean 8 hours. Not going to happen but I’m keeping the faith.
June 4, 2012 | 6:17 pm
Posted by Ilana Angel
My heart has been broken many times. There are different levels of heartache of course, but pain is pain and it all hurts the same. When my dad died my heart broke in a way I thought I would never recover from, but now it is the part of my broken heart that I pray will never mend. It is where I remember his voice, his face, his laugh, his love, and his unwavering support and belief in me. It is an unbearable but comforting pain.
I have an open and accepting heart and my search for love is guided by faith. My history is a sad one in terms of men, and there are days when I marvel at both how far I have come, and how I have not moved forward at all. I have long been afraid of finding love because on many levels I do not trust myself and my judgment, and also because I am somewhat afraid that my bad decisions will impact my son and his view of me and my choices.
When love breaks your heart the only thing that can mend it is finding new love, and that is sometimes impossible to do. With every relationship that has ended, regardless of how long it lasted, I am certain I will never love again, and live the rest of my life alone. I can remember having my heart broken in 7th grade and being quite certain that the world was over and the feeling is not any different when you are a grown up.
After a glass or two of wine I imagine I will not be alone but rather live with 18 cats, waiting for my son to visit with his kids. I am so fearful of becoming a cat lady that I refer to my second cat as the cat of my cat. Did you follow that? I have a cat, and my cat has a cat. Yes, I refer to the 2nd cat as the 1st cat’s cat so I am not a single woman with 2 cats. Ridiculous I know, but I simply refuse to be a woman on my way to owning 18 cats.
I have found and lost love 3 times in my life. The kind of love where I thought I would spend the rest of my life with that person. One was my husband, and while it did not last, my son was born out of that love and I will be forever grateful. My heart is wrapped around this child and he is the greatest joy of my life. I would not change anything about that heartbreak to end up as this mother of this divine human being.
I loved two men after my marriage ended and while I like to think it was real love, I’m not sure it was. The pain of the loss felt real but I don’t think the love was authentic. I don’t trust easily and that I was able to trust these men was enough for me to label it love. Love is a struggle for me because as much as I want to be in love, I am jaded, on guard, and fearful. It is hard to recognize love through the haze of those things.
I find myself going back and forth between enjoying my new relationship and being terrified of it. Recently I found myself sitting on the fence with two clear options. I could surrender to my heart and allow myself fall in love, or I could cave to my fear and walk away. I was scared, nervous, confused, and exhausted. I have been at this place before and always chose fear. Clearly that has not really worked out for me, but change is hard.
I am brave, but cowardly. I am trusting, but fearful. I am open, but shut off. I am hopeful, but jaded. I am joyous, but bitter. I am a girl who believes in love, but is unsure I am deserving. I have been defined by my romantic history, but perhaps it’s time to focus on creating a future rather than reliving a past. I have relaxed enough to see love, and with time and patience I will relax enough to enjoy it too.
In the past I went into relationships with hope that my heart would not be broken, but things are different now. I have the hope that I will grow old with a partner to love me and share the second half of my life. There are no guarantees in love or life, but I have hope and hope is everything. I can see the possibility of a happily ever after and that is a true blessing. I am still scared, but love is grand and so I am keeping the faith.
June 1, 2012 | 8:22 am
Posted by Ilana Angel
I have always had nice hair. It has been a lot of different lengths, and even more colors, and with the exception of a really bad perm in the 80’s, it has always been very pretty. I pride myself on taking care of it. Hair is a lot of work, especially when you have much as I do. I love my hair and it shows.
Last week I lost my mind for a minute and managed to ruin the hair I love so much. Really, really ruin it. Time has passed and so I can finally talk about what happened without crying. I have discovered that hair is a powerful thing and mine, for reasons I don’t understand, helped to define me.
Before I share the story, let me clarify that I get it is silly. I am blessed with health, happiness and love, so in the big picture who cares about hair? Nobody died, I have a roof over my head, food on my table, and money in the bank, so why should my hair matter so much? It just does.
Important to note that the Englishman has been very supportive during the crisis. He thinks I am ridiculous, and that my hair looks beautiful, but he is a man and he is bald so what the hell does he know about it? I love him for being kind, but he has no clue what he is talking about so shhh.
Last week I decided to cover my grey hair. I have been coloring my hair myself for 25 years and never had a problem. Not sure what happened last week but for some reason I bought the wrong color. Instead of the medium brown I normally, use, I bought dark brown. Epic fail.
I colored my hair and quickly discovered it was more black than brown. The color was dark, patchy, and uneven. To make it even more humiliating, I did not even cover my grey properly. So now I am home, at 9:00 pm, with black hair, which makes my freckles look green.
I freaked out, not sure what to do. I started crying, which made my child feel sorry for me. By sorry for me of course I mean he laughed, suggested I audition for The Adams Family, and reminded me it was only hair. What is it with men and their insensitivity about hair?
I went to bed very upset and woke up at 4:30 to call my sister in Canada. She is a hairdresser and she would know what to do! She was very supportive. Well, after she lectured me on why one must go to a professional and not do their own hair, she was very supportive.
She told me I needed to make an appointment with a colorist immediately to fix it. There were products that could remove the bad dye job, I would go back to normal, and all would be fine. She was very comforting but for some reason I decided I was not going to listen.
I went to the drug store and looked for magic color corrector. I found it, bought a box and happily went home to fix my mistake before anyone even knew what I had done. Important to note that my hair was long enough to tie into a nice bow so why would I only buy one box?
I put it on and happily sipped a cup of tea while I waited for the miracle to happen. I washed it out after twenty minutes and that is when my screams woke up my son. He ran in to see what was happening and discovered me on the floor sobbing. I had turned my hair bright orange.
By my hair of course I mean only the top half of it. There was no way one box was going to cover it all so it was now orange on top and black on the bottom. More of a striped look actually. I had officially ruined my hair and was now on the verge of fainting. This is when it got really bad.
I have now officially lost my mind and am crying so hard I cannot think clearly so I do the only logical thing, I sent my son to get another bottle of the corrector so I could at least make my hair even in color. Now I know all the hairdressers are dying right now, but wait, it gets worse.
I put on the new bottle of magic potion, but only on the still black parts of my hair. I pace around for 20 minutes, crying while my son stares at me wanting to laugh but too afraid, then I wash it out with the belief that I will have fixed it and all will be well. No need to go on with this right?
My hair is now bright orange, with just the right amount of black stripes to make it interesting. My son is hugging me, looking at ME in horror, finally understanding exactly what I have done. I’m sure the entire neighborhood was frightened by my sobs, which were now wails.
I have ruined my hair in a way that I am convinced cannot be repaired. I wrapped my head in a scarf and drove my son to school. I stopped on the way home and bought a pack of cigarettes. Interesting because I don’t smoke. I got home, lit one up, and cried as if there had been a death.
I got dressed, threw away the cigarettes, went to a salon nearby and waited for them to open. When they did, 2 hours later, I walked in, removed my scarf, listened to the muffled laughter, and burst into tears. Why I did not go to my regular stylist is a mystery to me.
The salon told me it would be okay and they went to work. I’m not sure what they did exactly, but bleach was involved. 3 hours later I left with my hair one color, but sadly not a good color for me. I could have played Lucille Ball is a movie with the hair I was rocking.
I thanked the woman profusely for helping to get it all one color, hugged her, walked out, got in my car, drove far enough away that she could not see me, and had a good cry. I bought another pack of cigarettes, drove to my own stylist, put the scarf back on, and waited for to get into work.
Now the next four hours are a bit of a blur and I am still suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. My stylist, who I love, is Persian and there was a lot of whispering in Farsi, people running over to see what was happening, and quite a few meetings in the back room.
They put all kinds of stuff on my hair and the entire time I am crying, smoking on occasion, and being offered food and drink. Sadly nobody had a Xanax so I just sat there and waited. It took a very long time but in the end my hair was back to a lovely shade of brown and I was thrilled.
As much as the color was beautiful, the hair simply did not handle all the stress well and started to break. As she brushed into my hair it simply started to snap. I had managed to eat through its thickness and turn it into a frail birds nest. I gave my hair an overdose.
The only thing we could do was cut off the dead part, knowing it would grow back healthy and strong. I sat in the chair, feeling sick from what I had done, and the cigarettes, and I watched as my hair was cut from just above my waist to my shoulders. It was a nightmare.
It had taken me a long time to grow it out and I was crushed. In 24 hours I went from rocking some serious Kardashian hair to looking like a soccer mom. It has been very upsetting and even now, a week later, it makes me cry. How is it my hair became so powerful?
My hair is a beautiful color now, and the cut is lovely, yet I feel ugly. The Englishman tells me I am beautiful and he loves it, which makes me want to punch him in the face. My son tells me it’s a great cut for summer, which makes me want to punch him in the face. I want my old hair back.
I know many of you can relate to my misery. It is just hair and we’re not defined by how it looks, but it was beautiful and I really loved it. It will grow back but I’m 46 years old and how long can I rock Kardashian hair for real? My hair may never be back to how it was which is sad.
The color will fade and settle into a lovely shade of brown with red undertones. If I could remember what my natural hair color was, I imagine it is quite close. It is super healthy with not one split end to be found, but at the end of the day it just does not look like me anymore.
I may grow it out, or eventually love the length and keep it where it is. What I will never do however is color my own hair. There are colorists and hairdressers for a reason, and no matter how many times I have done my own hair, I am not a hairdresser. What the hell was I thinking?
I am never smoking again, never coloring my own hair, never going to punch my son or my Englishman in the face, and never going to forgive myself. Too dramatic? Maybe, but it really was beautiful hair. I am mourning the loss of it and don’t care how shallow that makes me sound.
I would feel better of course if I could cut off some Kardashian hair so I will keep some scissors in my purse just incase I have an opportunity. Watch your backs girls. It is only hair right? It will grow back. I just hope it grows back quickly, so I am deep conditioning and keeping the faith.