I’m not a crier. I mean I cry when something really sad happens, like when watching “Once Were Warriors” (best NZ film ever, rent it), but I don’t cry in front of strangers. And I definitely don’t cry, pout, or whine to get what I want. I used to think I was morally opposed to all that, something to do with being a strong independent woman, and earning things of my own accord. Yeah. About that.
On Friday I got a letter in the mail from the lovely people at customs. Like some of you suggested in my last post, they were holding my dress for an import duty. I kind of had a feeling that this was what was happening, but I was in denial. Sure enough when I opened the letter there were the famous words:
“We are writing in regards to a package that has been sent to you from overseas”… blah bah blah… something about a fee… and then the total… $315.00. WHAT!!! $315.00?!?!?
Granted, that is kiwi dollars, but seriously? That’s about half of what I paid for my dress.
Apparently they had determined that my thrice-used dress was worth over $1,000 kiwi, which made it subject to an import duty of 10% and then because it was clothing it was subject to Goods and Services Tax of 12.5%, and then there was a fee for having them open the box and of course tax on the cost of that fee. I freaked out a little.
After 2 hours of talking to two different very unfriendly and unhelpful customs officers at the national call center, one who referred me to a fake local office that didn’t exist, and another who wanted me to hire a customs broker, I finally got the number to a smaller somewhat local branch of customs. At this point I was feeling quite frustrated, a bit sad, and just overall defeated. I was thinking about a conversation I had with Mr. Veggie that morning about our budget and how important it was to stick to it. I was thinking about how many hours of work $315.00 would equal. I was thinking about how it had been almost 4 weeks since my dress got sent out and how many times I had called the post office to see if it was in. I’m not proud of my next move.
Customs officer Andrew picked up after about the 15th ring:
Andrew: NZ Customs how can I help you?
Andrew: Um, I’m sorry, I couldn’t understand that.
Veggie: (sob) Bride. (sob) Wedding dress. (sob) Fee. (sob) Can’t afford.
Andrew: Oh, I’m so sorry let me see what I can do.
Ten minutes later my dress was through customs and on its way to my door. Supposedly it will arrive on Monday. One step forward for my wedding dress… one step backwards for women’s lib struggles worldwide.
Have you pulled out the bride card to get what you want? Or even worse the ultimate combo of crying bride?