This saga is so drama-filled that I couldn't even fit it into one blog. So, posting in 2 parts. I apologize for the suspense, I know you're all dying a slow, painful, death-of-the-soul, waiting for part two to be posted. (ps: I don't apologize for the suspense.)
To accompany the 10 chapters of this story, I have created what I call, The French Customer Service Rage-O-Meter!
It goes from:
2: The Van der Beek Blubber - I'm just going to feel sorry for myself, just for a little while.
3: The Busey BallBuster - You doubt I'm lucid, but I'm so scary you'll help anyway.
4: The Sheen Sanity Check -
I think this is not even possible. I must be having a psychotic break.
5: The Nicholson NutJob - I'm unhinging, my inner Johnny is showing.
6: The Betty White Flaming Frenzy - In my mind, I'm imaging burning you alive.
7: The Christian Bale Beat-down - Imma bout to cut a b----. Seriously, look at my face, and prepare to be sliced.
8: The Arnold Ape-Shit - I am holstering this knife in order to get a saw, because first I'm going to scream in your face, then I'm going to cut you up into tiny little pieces, and probably store your remains in my walls.
9: The Cage Crackout - Someone help, I can't stop swearing. I'm like someone fed Nicholas Cage an entire bucket of crack, then set him on fire.
10: The Cameron Catatonic - I can't deal with this, I can't... DEAL. WITH. THIS. Going to my happy place, happy place, happy place, lalalala-lalalaaaahh, happy happy plaaaaace...
So here goes. Enjoy my plight.
People who know me, have seen that I can't really handle French customer service. Imagine I'm superwoman. (It's not hard.)... (that's what she said)... (anyway, I'm superwoman). Well, customer service over here is like injecting liquid, radioactive kryptonite into my super-hero veins, then setting my hair on fire, shoving a kryptonite grenade in my mouth, and pulling the pin. Read: I'm a hot, liquid, melty-flesh mess.
I've been sans cell and dealing with phone and insurance companies for almost 6 weeks now, which in Shannon-time is like, 72 years. This feels like forever. I should be an old lady. I should have.. I don't know... Madonna-Arms, or, Angelina-Jolie-Hands, or... belgh, Lohan-Forehead.
The time spent on the phone with these people alone is enough to suck the life right out of me and turn me into an old, old, I'm-on-hold, hag. Most of these conversations were so ridiculous that I have documented them for posterity, and in part 2, I will share my top tips.
I'm paraphrasing most of this. And by 'paraphrasing', I mean grossly exaggerating.
Me: I think I lost my phone.
Phone company A: MERDE. Someone is using it, RIGHT NOW, OMFGFFS, YOU NEED TO BLOCK IT, ASAP, the WORLD is LITERALLY ENDING, we are ALL going to DIE!!!! FIRE, IT BURNS, MY FINGER, I THINK IT'S BROKEN FROM CLINGING TO THIS PHONE SO HARD, IF I HAD A UNICORN, I'D BE GENTLY RUBBING ITS HORN WITH MY SHAKING BROKEN-FINGER-HAND AND MAKING A WISH FOR THIS NOT TO BE HAPPENING RIGHT NOW, WHY CAN'T I HAVE A UNICORN DAMMIT, WHYYYYYYYYYyyyyyyyyyyyy...... (sobs).
(So, the phone was blocked, the police were notified.)
Chapter 2: Let the Insurance Debacle #1, BEGIN!
Me: I have the maximum policy possible, I've been paying 20eur a month for 2.5yrs, please reimburse me for this theft.
Insurance company: Do you know the circumstances of the theft?
Me: Umm.. not, really, I didn't notice the theft, so I can't really tell you what happened other than I was probably pick-pocketed because the phone company says someone's using it.
Insurance company: Oh. (clickity click in the bkg). Yeah, this file is now closed, we can't take your case.
Me: WHAHH?? Did I just hallucinate you saying no? Or are you really that much of a dick?
Insurance company: (maniacal laughing) I love this part. You're screwed. You're more screwed than Tila Tequila, my friend, get those condoms ready because we're going to make your ass bleed.
(The rest is really not appropriate for the blog, I mean, seriously it's just a long string of swear words in French that even I didn't know I knew until that moment, and I already mentioned ass bleeding, so I gotta draw the line somewhere.)
Chapter 3: F@#%. I found it.
Me: Um, Phone Company Rep-Person... Why in the hell did you tell me someone was using my phone when it was just lodged in the black hole between the car door and the driver's seat?
Phone Company: I never said that. You're a dirty, lying, whore.
Me: Yes, but let's get back to my phone situation.
Phone Company: I never said that. You're a hallucinating, dirty, lying, whore.
Me: Crossing the line with that hallucination talk, I'm a perfectly lucid dirty, lying, whore, and you told me someone was using it.
Phone Company: Did not.
Because I'm a persistent (dirty, lying, but not hallucinating) whore, our conversation went back and forth for 40 min in a pathetic "did-not-did-to" dance that degraded into another swearing session.
I asked them to reactivate the sim, and naively thought that my troubles were behind me.
Chapter 4: REALLY? Really. This. Is. Not. Happening.
It's at this point in my story that the Cellular Gods feasted for 3 days and 3 nights, mainly on ex-lax chocolate, with some fruit, whole-grain muffins and espresso, on the side. Then, they lifted up their glowing, pristine robes, and squatted right over my face.
So I was happily calling everyone, relaying what an idiot I am, when all of a sudden... the phone just stops working. Bad luck too, because I was supposed to catch a train, and my sole communication with the friends who had my ticket, was, you guessed it: my phone.
I asked several staffers at the train station, but it was a good samaritan who lent me his (working) phone, and I caught the train. But my story isn't over. I am still phoneless at this point, and my face is covered in Phone Deity excrement.
Stay tuned for part II where I relay the end, point out all my stupid mistakes, and give you the keys to success.
Feel free to share your own horror stories in comments, I feel your pain.