SAVE YOUR RECEIPTS

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By all means, save your receipts. And don’t remove tags. In fact, if you ever again get a gift of clothes for a present, do not even open the present. Take it immediately to a store -- any store -- and return it for a different size. It’s the only way you’ll get it done.

I learned this painful lesson when I made the tragic error of trying to swap out some clothes for smaller sizes.

You see, my wife bought me two pairs of pajamas for Christmas. She knows that I am one of the pastiest people this side of vampires, and she wants me as clothed as possible at night, lest I light up the room with paleness.

The problem is that my wife, apparently, thinks she is married to an NFL lineman and bought sizes that would not fit be unless I gained, oh, 600 pounds.

So, I decided to take the pajamas up to the store where she bought them and downsize (the pajamas, I mean; I wasn’t planning on going in and thinning out the staff; I’m pretty sure I don’t have that authority). I approached a clerk and told her the deal. She then informed me that, since the store had recently changed names, they had changed their return policy. Personally, I didn’t see what one had to do with the other, but so be it. I asked what the new policy was. That’s when it all went downhill.

She asked me if I had a receipt, which I didn’t. She then noted that the tags had been removed from the pajamas. (Not the ones sewn into them, but the ones that are attached with that little white plastic cable that is probably the strongest substance known to man. They should make car bumpers out of those things.) I told her that I wasn’t sure why the tags weren’t on there, but I didn’t see the big deal, because I just wanted a different size, not twenty minutes alone with the cash drawer.

"Well," she said, "if the tags aren’t on there, then we can’t sell them."

"Well," I replied, "if the size is Mastodon, I can’t wear them." And, just between you and me, I don’t really care if they can sell them again or not. They’ve got lots of other things to sell. I don’t have lots of other things to wear, at least not in the pajama genre.

I asked if there was anyone else I could talk. She picked up the phone and announced into the intercom for her supervisor to call her station. The supervisor -- let’s call her Sue -- and I quickly became nemeses. She told the situation to Sue, who said that I was basically stuck with my giant pajamas. I informed the clerk (who was actually very nice during the whole thing, and who you could tell thought the policy was bunk but her hands were tied) that I wanted to speak with Sue.

Apparently, Sue is very similar to the Wizard of Oz, in that she must remain behind the protective cover of her office. The great and powerful Sue would not come out and see me. Instead, she had the clerk bring the pajamas back to her office where, I assume, there may have been flying monkeys.

A few minutes later, the clerk returned with the Official Sue Proclamation: No Dice, Pajama Boy. Sue had decided that the clothes had been worn and washed, which they hadn’t, unless Sue tried them on back in her office. I really don’t know what method Sue uses to determine whether or not clothes have been worn and washed, but she needs to re-evaluate it.

I felt that little vein rising in my forehead, the one that throbs in direct proportion to the amount of frustration and/or idiocy in my presence. I told the clerk that I wanted to see Sue, and that she could walk out of her office and see me face to face. THUMP. THUMP.

The vein was telling me to let it go. The clerk picked up the phone and started to dial. THUMP. THUMP. I told the clerk to never mind. As much as I wanted to give Sue a piece of my mind, figuratively, the thumping was leading me to believe that I may actually give her a piece of my mind when my head finally exploded like a water balloon.

I grabbed my stuff and began to walk out. Before I left, I told the clerk that I would like her to do me one favor: I wanted her to call Sue and tell her that I would never, ever shop at her store again, and to thank her for narrowing down my shopping options. I can assure you, this is one boycott I definitely plan to keep.

So I never did get my downsize. After I left the store, I took the pajamas home and did wash them (for the FIRST time, Sue), hoping to shrink them down to sizes less suitable for a Ford Explorer. But, if they don’t shrink, I guess I’ll just have to go by some new pajamas. It’s just too bright in the bedroom.