The Visa Diaries

I don’t know about you folks, but I have an iPhone. I’m guessing a good number of you do too – Apple didn’t recently beat out Microsoft in market cap for its computers (crazy as that is, and not that the computers aren’t great), ok?? Looove the iPhone.

However, if you don’t have an iPhone, this is not some kind of insider, iPhone-crazy post designed to make you feel bad. Because the iPhone has an weak spot, as I have discovered, and its name is Liquid.

my third iPhone

I first had an iPhone 3g. It served me wonderfully, and I loved it dearly, until about 2 months ago when I went to get Mongolian barbecue for lunch. Looove the Mongolian barbecue. I eat it regularly, as its one of the few good lunch options near my work. However, on this particular day, I must have been making a call, must have picked up my Mongolian barbecue, and tossed the phone into the smiley-faced lunch bag when I was done… Well, when I removed the phone back at my desk, my own face was not so smiley. iPhone did not seem to be working properly. Sure, Mongolian BBQ juice had goozled onto it a bit, but hey, like, what’s the big deal?

Turns out it is a BIG deal. When Mr. Genius at the iPhone bar the next day opened up the phone, he drew for me with his finger the outline of the Mongolian BBQ juice inside the phone… Big goozle. iPhone no work-y. Darn.

Luckily however, I was due for an upgrade. It still cost me $200, but I walked away with a brand new iPhone 3gs. Happy-ish camper.

Until the other weekend. It has been incredibly hot on the East Coast for the past several weeks, and Saturday afternoon there was a glorious downpour. I happened to be caught out in it on my bike and was thinking, oh how wonderful, oh how glorious, the big, deep, raging summer rain. I peddled fast through the drops till I got home. And when I got home… big deep summer drops had permeated my purse, and apparently, permeated my new iPhone. This time my reaction was a lot more than “darn.” Two iPhones in two months is a bit much.

Let me just stop here and say that if this ever happens to you, drop that baby in a bag of rice as fast as you can say “Uncle Ben.” Apparently the rice helps dry it out. I didn’t know that, so I just propped it up, hoping the rain would drip out of it. No such luck. Over the next day it progressed from dying to dead.

I took it to the Genius Bar again. I got a very nice genius, at the VERY crowded Fifth Avenue store (I think the Apple store must be one of New York’s biggest tourist destinations.) I told him what had happened, and he said, “You know that liquid voids the warranty?” I had suspected as much. He peered into its orifices with a bright light. He tried to restart it with mega-voltages. It remained in the next world. He peered into its orifices with the bright light again, and then looked at me furtively. Apparently the iPhone has built in liquid detectors – two of them. On my phone, one was tripped and the other one wasn’t. Company policy he told me, is that if one is tripped, they ask the customer, “has this phone gotten wet?” If the customer says yes, warranty is voided. If the customer says no, it is covered by warranty. He kindly suggested I take that info with me, and make another appointment, at another Genius Bar. I skedaddled away, carefully holding my phone upright, lest the water drip around inside and trip the second sensor.

Next morning, I had an appointment at the Soho Genius Bar, bright and early. I got a kindly looking genius, and was somewhat encouraged that perhaps he’d “work with me”. He took the phone into the back for what seemed a very long time. Finally when he reappeared, he said, “This phone has been wet.” No ifs, ands or buts. No one-sensor-has-been-wet-but-the-other-hasn’t. I tried to prompt him. “Are you sure?” I asked. “Is that really the case, that if one sensor is wet, the warranty is voided?” He wasn’t budging. I could try AT&T he told me. I could make another appointment with another Genius, he told me. But he wasn’t budging. I left disheartened, cradling my dead phone.

One way or another, I needed a working phone. After trying AT&T, who fobbed me off on the Cellphone Exchange re-sellers down the street, where sketchy guys were selling “extra” Blackberries and iPhones, and they wanted $345 for a used iPhone anyway, I realized that Apple’s $200 replacement fee was the best deal I was going to get.

I made another appointment at the Genius Bar, back at Fifth Ave again. When I got there after work, it was crowded again. “We’re running 20 minutes late,” the greeter told me. I sat down dejected and nervous, carrying my dead phone, feeling tired of this whole pursuit of a free replacement. Half an hour went by, and I tried to distract myself, unsure of my communications strategy should be. To maintain the pretense that it hadn’t gotten wet, it had just dies, I reasoned I should act clueless as to what the problem could be, indignant that this new phone had broken, and confident that they they would replace it. However, I finally got called by a very no-nonsense-looking female Genius. “Oh great,” I thought, “She’s never going to give me a break.” All of my will for this issue gone, I communicated the my phone had stopped working in as nervous and guilty a tone as could be.

But she was busy. She didn’t even ask me what happened. She peered quickly in the phone’s orifices. Then she did something amazing: she walked to a drawer, pulled out a replacement phone box, opened it, scanned it, replaced my SIM card, printed out some paperwork, and handed me a new phone. “Your phone got wet,” she said. “I’m giving you a replacement one for free today. Be very careful with it – these phones are very sensitive to water.”

I don’t know why she did it – maybe just to get me out of there? – but I was grateful. And I am now going to travel with a ziplock baggie for my iPhone.

Sometimes when I write about things I buy, I am painfully aware of how trite they are in the larger scheme of things. Especially when preparing to write about something like eyeliner.  I do realize, for example, that the plugging the cap on BP’s busted oil well on the gulf is a much bigger deal in every way. But then I remind myself that the small scheme counts too, and that it is generally what we feel most on a day to day basis. So, with that in mind, in the small scheme of things, I was extremely excited to find an amazing eye pencil!

Sephora eye liner

How it happened was this: I was sitting in Union Square one fine warm evening this week, enjoying a delicious fallafel salad bowl from the oh-so-fun and oh-so-Amsterdammy Maoz, when I got chased away by a trio of crack-ed out street folks. Perhaps “inspired to leave” is a better way to phrase it. However, I should really thank them, because I then felt inspired to go look in Sephora, which I had originally passed by with the very strange thought, “I don’t really need anything from Sephora right now.” However, my slightly raving street friends encouraged me to reconsider, and I realized “Well, don’t I *always* need something from Sephora?” So I passed through the stripey facade in search of what it was that I needed without knowing it.

It didn’t take long for the fog in my head to clear, and for me to realize – duh! – exactly what I needed: a new blue-green eyeliner. I have a peacock blue liquid liner from Mac that always gets rave reviews, but it is a bit much for every day. I also have a greenish blue pencil liner from NARS, but I am saddened to report that it doesn’t work very well. For one thing, it seems like the sharp woody bits of the pencil start sticking up and practically tearing my eyelids off almost the day after I sharpen it. And for another, it is a pretty hard, dry consistency, and I basically have to stretch my eyelids to my ear, and/or press super heard to get it to mark at all. Ouch! I feel like I get a new wrinkle every time I use it. Which I am surprised about, frankly, form NARS, who is generally my favorite cosmetics company.

Anyway, this time I was looking for cheap and cheerful. I wanted a quick, summery make-up fix, not the heavy-duty image investment that so much of make-up, and most certainly anything that could be called skincare or a ‘cosmaceutical’, requires these days. I headed back to the Sephora house brand section, where I have had good luck with the occassional party color before. There is was, a perfect green amidst the broken testers and smeared pigments. I bought it untested, and my gamble was rewarded. The color is perfect for everyday – a a gray-ish green that mellows into a amazonian smokey seduction. The best part, however, is the texture – creamy and effortless as it glides on, it is also waterproof, which means it sticks there a bit longer than average. Often I believe you get what you pay for, but some lucky times, you just get more. Between Sephora and the crackheads, the stars were in alignment.

What is the deal with businesses that produce things in cheaper countries turning around and hawking them here for premium prices? There are tons of examples I could think of, but I am referring specifically right now to John Robshaw textiles. My annoyance is heightened by the fact that I really like his things, I’d love to have more of them around my home, but they are too expensive! I am annoyed because they are traditional – for the most part Indian and Central Asian – designs, made in traditional ways, in those countries. We all know that he is probably paying about $.50 for a pillowcase that he turns around a retails for $100. His wares are beautiful, but its not because he has personally innovated or designed anything wonderful – he is selecting, appropriating, and refreshing from designs and production methods that craftspeople there have developed over centuries. (This funny article from NYMag points out the same for Madeline Weintraub, who is suing Pottery Barn for supposedly copying design from her that she copied from the Moors and Taksim people). Why does he get that mark-up? I mean, I understand a business making a profit, but couldn’t it be a reasonable one?

John Robshaw sheets from Anthropologie

I am realizing two things as I write this. One, there must be some extra level that he is adding in terms of curatorial eye and production quality, because even though you see other Indian-produced or Indian-inspired things around, they are generally not done as well. Either the quality isn’t as good, or the line isn’t as extensive and consistent. Or, they are even *more* expensive, like this precious little boutique not far from my house. As obvious as it seems it should be, doing a good job at any business is not all that common. Maybe its not actually necessary to be innovative, its only necessary to be competent.

Two, the fact that his products *look* Indian is probably contributing to my annoyance by making me think they should be cheaper. The fact is, just about everything I buy is probably produced for pennies in a country like India or China, and then marked up as far as the company can possibly manage before they sell it to me. But when a design looks more ‘Western’ or modern, it doesn’t remind me that it was produced somewhere else, and thus doesn’t remind me how much extra I am paying.

Three, maybe I’m just jealous. Maybe I should be traveling around the world and sourcing lovely home products. Yup, that’s probably it. His fey, self-satisfied product notes don’t help. For example “Crisp and graphic blocks still remind me of mountains and fruit orchards of Uzbekistan and my last trip spent working with the weavers. – John Robshaw” sort of makes me want to barf. Its like he wants to be a BBC correspondent or something.

Anyway, I recently acquired a set of his sheets from Anthropologie, for about half what they would go for direct from him. I also have 2 pillowcases, bought off Gilt.com at a similar mark-down. Every them I look at them I have mixed feelings. I love the colors, patterns, and warm, hand-made feel. And I am still annoyed at John.

Early on when Matt and I first started dating, apropos of very little, he announced to me that he had a great blender. He really emphatically wanted me to know what good quality his blender was, and went on about it at some length. This did not exactly make my knees go weak. “I’ve got a good blender, too” I said, referring to a cobalt-blue KitchenAid that had been my first grown-up home appliance purchase when I graduated from college. He looked at it, and was a bit dismissive, “Yeah, that looks ok. But I’ve got a really great blender.” I think the conversation must have ended about there, because I could not muster any more interest for the topic.

From that exchange until last weekend, I maintained the impression that my sweetie was a little weird and overzealous on the topic of blenders (actually kitchen stuff in general, but I can leave that for another post). It didn’t stop me from loving him or agreeing to marry him, but it did get filed away in that mental drawer where we all keep of secret judgements about the strange little quirks of others.

His error in strategy, I now realize, was announcing his blender asset in the middle of winter, when there wasn’t so much of interest to blend. Last weekend however, when he suggested that we could make frozen strawberry margaritas in his excellent blender, all of a sudden my attention for his appliance skyrocketed. “Frozen strawberry magaritas!!!” I thought, “I’ve never heard of such a genius idea!”

We went to the supermarket and got the ingredients: a big bag of frozen strawberries, a can of Limeaid, and a bottle of Jose Cuervo’s medecino. (We discovered while enjoying his elixir, that Jose Cuervo’s name in English would translate to “Joe Crow”… somehow not as flattering). That’s it: toss these things in the blender with some ice, and fire that baby up. This, then, is where the great blender becomes relevant. If you have one, such as Matt’s Hamilton Beach, after a few minutes all those icy ingredients will smooth out into one fine, slushy, slurpy, heavenly strawberry slurry. If your blender is not quite so great, well, after a few minutes you may have nothing more than some pathetically chipped frozen chunks and that unmistakable eau de motor burn-out. I’m sure you’ll agree that chunky, unblended summer drinks are just about as much of a buzz-kill as sunburn and sand in the bikini.

So that’s it – my purchase this week was summertime joy in a glass. All it took was three simple ingredients, and a guy with a great blender.