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Oh Target how I love thee. Roaming the aisles with a coffee in hand, finding cute stuff I definitely don't need, and durable, sensory friendly clothes for Ana. Just walking in is therapeutic. Which is why I'm sad I have to do this. But the people MUST know.
A lady in management, who shall not be named, working at my local Target is running a black market breast pump ring.
I'm just kidding...ha ha...Anyways, here's a story about Target, breast pumps, and what happens the ONE time you let your pride get the better of you *cough Target manager cough*
One of the first things my OBGYN's office told me was "Don't buy a breast pump, your insurance probably covers either part or all of the cost for one." As someone who struggled to get the hang of pumping the first time around because I though a manual pump would work just fine, I was delighted to hear I could get a new electric one and hopefully have a better experience this time around.
Sitting at home, surfing the web on how to go about taking advantage of this surprising perk, I found that Target participates in the insurance program. Obviously I love Target. I think you could look at me and be like, "Yep. That bitch looooovvvveeeessss Target," and you would be correct.
So I made no hesitation giving them my insurance information, personal information, and piece of my soul. In return I got an email saying, "You're all set! We'll email you to let you know when your pump is in your store and MAKE SURE TO BRING YOUR ID TO PICK IT UP. No one else can pick it up for you." Luckily, it didn't take long. Less than 5 days later, I got an email telling me it was a go, I could pick it up.
We breezed through the door, greeted by the smell of freshly ground coffee and plastic packaging and went up to the pick up counter.
"I'm here to pick up my breast pump I ordered through the insurance program." I told the young girl behind the counter who was confused about my excitement.
"Sure, let me grab that for you."
She looked, then, empty handedly, made a call.
Ah shit. I know this moment. Because I've experienced it quite often. That "just a moment" before things get complicated.
Sure enough, another lady comes out.
"We can't find your order, but if you leave me your number, we'll figure out whats going on and give you a call. We're also going to give you guys a coffee for the hassle."
We accept the coffee and I figured no biggie, it probably just got mixed up in transit...
One week later. No call. No breast pump. Radio silence is never good.
So I called to get the low down.
"Hi, I came in last week to pick up my pump and you guys couldn't find it and were supposed to call me back when you figured out what happened." Totally an honest mistake, they're probably busy.
"Yeah, let me transfer you to she-who-remains-nameless."
Beep. Beep. Nameless-One picks up.
"Yeah, we looked into it and your husband picked it up."
This is where it goes south. Right here.
"Uhm, my husband definitely did NOT pick it up," I say a little shocked. Mostly because the previous statement was said with such certainty when it definitely was anything but true.
"Well, we reviewed the tape and your husband picked it up and we verified his ID."
"I don't know who picked it up, but it definitely wasn't my husband. And in the email I got, it said no one except ME could pick it up and you had to verify MY ID." I was super pissed by now. This lady acted as if I was trying to con a breast pump out of Target, which I'm sure happens, but come on.
"We checked. It was your husband."
RAGE. PURE RAGE. But this lady clearly forgot what my husband looked like.
"Maybe you should check again because you couldn't miss my husband if you tried. He's tattooed from face to feet and he MOST DEFINITELY DID NOT PICK UP THE BREAST PUMP. And the fact you let ANYONE besides me pick it up is insurance fraud."
"*sigh* We'll check the tape again just to be sure, but we DID verify his ID."
"You go ahead and do that." I made sure she had not somehow lost my number once again since she didn't even call to tell me about this debacle when they initially "figured it out".
In my rage, I called the corporate office and complained. I was that mad. Maybe it was the hormones, but it was definitely in part to the she-who-must not-be-named woman talking to me as if I were a breast pump con artist.
Less than 15 minutes later...
"Hi, this is SO-SO (not manager who was rude) and we're going to hold a breast pump for you here to pick up whenever is convenient. It's twice the value of the one you were going to get."
"...so it wasn't my husband, was it?" I ask to get them to admit it.
"Well we didn't watch the tape, but we're assuming it was an error on our end."
Pause. I can tell you they most definitely watched the tape. And they most definitely saw that the guy who picked up my breast pump paid for by my insurance was, in fact, not heavily tattooed. And here's where the whole, pride goeth before the fall, gets super real.
I can almost guarantee that if this situation had happened to someone else, they wouldn't have had this to fall back on because Chris is a minority in the public world when it comes to appearance. So I'm actually kind of glad this was us. Because the bitch-ass manager would have just screwed another mom-to-be over had it not been us.
"We'll be there in a minute to pick it up," I told the poor girl tasked with calling me back.
And just to sink it in further? I took Chris with me. And very loudly introduced him as my real husband while looking at the security camera. Then I walked out of that Target like Beyonce because good conquered evil that day.