So recently The Lovely Rhonda and I decided to replace our bed, which was becoming a canoe. We both spent our nights clinging to the edges and trying not to roll into one another, except when I would somehow (allegedly) end up in the center of the bed and (allegedly) wallow there in all my glory, thereby (allegedly) restricting her to a thin strip of the mattress. This is entirely hearsay and she can’t prove anything, but to humor her we spent an insane amount of money on what had better turn out to be the nicest bed anyone’s ever slept on, including Elvis Presley and the Queen of Anyplace.
Off we went to a mattress retailer and procured a mattress that cost more than my first car. It cost, in fact, more than 3 times what I paid for my first car. Of course, that was in like 1994 and it was a ’66 Chevy BelAir beater, but still.
Then we thought to ourselves, well, I guess it’s time for real furniture. We already had a sort of a real bed in that it was a wooden headboard and footboard and all that, but it was from Ikea. Which is like real furniture except flimsier. Now we were upgrading to a bigger bed, so… we found ourselves in a big-box furniture store which for the sake of argument we’ll call Por, for that is similar to its actual name and nicely describes the feeling we left with, searching for a sturdy, heirloom-quality bed set.
We wandered around, marveling at the many truly hideous collections and occasionally appreciating a few items. After narrowing it down to two styles, we hunted down a Ferenghi and commenced with the haggling.
I kid. I’m not a haggler. I find it stressful. I’m not scrappy in that way. Just tell me the price and let me get this over with.
The nice salesman, whom we shall call Tad the Wonder Boy, oiled his way over to us and opened the faucet of smarm. I believe he may have even referred to us as “ladies,” which just goes to show. I’m not sure what it shows, but it does.
It turned out that the one collection was completely out of stock, so we decided to go with the other. “Oh, well, that one’s mostly in stock,” said Tad the Wonder Boy encouragingly. We hashed out the details and arranged to pick up the in-stock items at the warehouse. I signed away some of my future earnings and away we went. (It’s okay, though; no interest and no tax, if you’re worried about our spending habits. It’s on time but at least it’s not on time and racking up interest!)
We arranged with a friend and her pickup truck to fetch the in-stock items, which was promised to be all but one item. This occurred in the rain and dark, the friend got lost, and I was fighting the flu, so yay. Goooood times. We squeaked in at the last moment to get the stuff — but no. Only the bed frame was in stock. TAD YOU LYING BASTARD COME DOWN HERE RIGHT NOW, I wanted to say, but I held it in. Just keep swimming. We tied the gargantuan boxes to the truck and inched our way home. Unloading the boxes was sure fun. Not only were they huge, and now damp, they were also ridiculously heavy.
A couple of days later here comes a message from Tad. He does not understand why they did not provide me with all of the furniture items promised. He insinuates that the warehouse folk are perhaps enthusiasts of certain quasi-legal herbal remedies. He offers to have the remaining items delivered, free of charge.
Uh, no. When I call back to schedule delivery, the very nice lady tells me that if they deliver, they will have to charge state tax. Instead we are promised a gift card at the conclusion of the deal. Fine. I’ll take it.
Oh, and also. Tad had his head firmly lodged way up his posterior regions when he told me we could pick the items up when we planned to, because the items (aside from the bed frame) wouldn’t actually be delivered to the warehouse until days later.
Then the other night I finally got off my lazy, trying-not-to-get-the-flu butt and measured the room.
Um, you guys? We have a problem. The furniture is too large to fit.
Today I returned to Por and informed them of the problem. They congratulated me for at least measuring before I got the furniture home. We swapped out the dresser/mirror for a taller, skinnier chest of drawers. Which sadly won’t be here for a month. I then drove to the warehouse and took delivery of the existing, miraculously in-stock nightstand and chest of drawers, which equally miraculously fit nicely into the back of the Minivan of Justice.
While I waited for the alleged herbal remedy enthusiasts to gather my items from the capacious warehouse, I observed a well-dressed couple returning a mirror. It possessed a flaw, they said. This led to the following text message exchange:
Me: Watching a bitchy yuppie couple inspect a mirror for distortion.
TLR: Oh boy.
Me: “This mirror has the same flaw!” *stamps tiny high heel impatiently*
TLR: Wow. I can’t even imagine.
Me: I believe they are fetching yet a third for inspection.
Me: Meanwhile mr and mrs bitchy resting face fume silently
Me: Now he has his arm around her protectively.
TLR: Must protect her from flawed mirrors!
Me: She will blame him for her ugliness and he will say it’s not the mirror! And she will shoot him with his own gun.