Conversations from the Weekend

Awkward Conversation, Saturday:

Mr. Martini and I decided that, in lieu of Christmas gifts this year, we’d buy ourselves something nice for the apartment. We did a little calculating, and figured out we could afford a recliner for the living room, provided that we didn’t spend more than $xxx. We did a little shopping, and this weekend we decided to get a recliner a budget furniture store.

We walked in the store on Saturday, knowing exactly what we wanted, and spoke with a sales lady to make the purchase. Saleslady was walking me through the purchase at the computer terminal, while Mr. M was back at the floor model, taking some measurements so we’d know where to place the recliner in the new apartment.

Which meant I had no back up for the following conversation:

Saleslady: “The chair will be ready for pick up on the 23rd, how does that sound?”

Me: “Oh, we were hoping for delivery.”

Saleslady: “Delivery! Well, that costs extra, you know.”

Me: “Yes, we know, we budgeted that in.”

Saleslady: “But it’s sixty dollars.”

Me: “Yes, I understand, but we don’t have a way to bring the chair home. We need to have it delivered.”

Saleslady: “Really? Don’t you know anyone with an SUV that can help you?”

Me: (feeling awkward and grilled) “No. We aren’t from the area, we don’t have any friends or family in the area, so we really don’t have anyone we can ask to haul our furniture.”

Saleslady: “But what kind of car do you have?”

Me: “We have a Ford Focus, so there’s no way it will fit in our car.”

Saleslady: *blinks* “But the chair comes apart, into two pieces.”

Me: (feeling friendless and unloveable, and now feeling that our car choice wasn’t well thought out enough if it means we can’t even bring our discount furniture home in it): “Fine, we’ll pick it up on the 23rd.”

Saleslady: “Perfect!” clicks buttons on the terminal “So, where are you moving to?”

Me: (feeling on safer ground) “[Neighborhood X].”

Saleslady: “Oh, I live over there, too! Why are you moving over there?”

Me: (under the spotlight again, not wanting to be rude and say “it’s none of your business, lady!”) “Oh, we found a nice apartment over there.”

Saleslady: “Oh, an apartment! Those are nice.”

Me: (silently): “AUUUUGGGGHHHH!”

By the time we got out of there, and Mr. M took one look at our open trunk and determined that the chair wouldn’t fit. Guess who gets to call Saleslady back to arrange delivery?

Minor Rant:

Before you ask – yes, we did consider renting a truck or an SUV for the day. But by the time we rented the truck, paid for insurance on the truck (a lesson learned the hard way), and took the time to pick up the truck, drive it to the furniture store, drive the chair home, and return the truck, the $60 would have made it about even. Which is why we budgeted in the delivery in the first place. I just hated being ignored so forcefully when trying to arrange the service I wanted to begin with, and made to feel frivolous and silly and yes, friendless, for not being able to take the chair home myself, or being able to call anyone to help on a moment’s notice. Yes, she was trying to save me money, but really, after all of that, couldn’t she see that we knew what we wanted, which was someone to bring the chair to our house, and were willing to pay for that service? I don’t think that’s so crazy, right?

End Rant.

Amusing Conversation, Sunday:

On Sunday, I had a few errands to run, and ended my running around by stopping at the grocery store for a couple of items. I pushed my cart in line behind a man on his cellphone, where he had just deposited a bunch of bananas, some apples, and two rotisserie chickens onto the checkout area. After a few minutes of heated dicussion that I couldn’t really hear, he snapped his phone shut, turned and saw me, and said:

“For the life of me, I will never understand pregnant women.”

I laughed, because even though I’ve never been a pregnant woman, I’ve known a few here and there, and had a pretty good idea of his dilemma.

“I just don’t understand how one day, she wants this, and another day, she can’t stand it and wants something else. I just can’t keep up! Now I have to put one of these chickens back.”

The checker handed the chicken to the bagger, who ran it off to rotisserie chicken carousel.

“Well,” I said, “at least you know there’s an end in sight, right? I mean, she won’t be this way forever, will she?”

He just shook his head.

“She’s just turned into such a witch! But I guess it’s like my father-in-law said, ‘Son, just remember one thing, that while this is happening, your wife is going to seem like a witch. And son?’ he said, ‘Just remember – she is a witch, so just do what she says.’”

At which point, the cashier had his total, so he paid for his rotisserie chicken, apples and bananas, and was on his way.

I hope for his sake, his wife wanted the barbecue rotisserie chicken, and not the herb-rubbed kind.