We think like this:
“If it ain’t broke…don’t fix it.”
Beyond that, actually.
We think, “if it’s not one hundred percent dead, don’t even think about where you’re having the
memorial service.”
Meaning, we hang on to EVERYTHING, as long as it’s remotely functional, no matter how unsightly or
outdated or semi-useless it is.
We’ll recover broken couches with any stretchy material that we hope matches a “color scheme”, we
save out-of-style wooden wall units that are so warped that field mice commit suicide from their
drawers.
It’s not like we don’t have disposable income to play with..we do..but why replace sixties style
bathroom wallpaper(barely an exaggeration for comedic effect) when, for the same money, you can go
to a half dozen specialty dining restaurants on your next cruise?
We don’t “redo”.we “make do”
That is, until recently, while sitting at the kitchen table and studying the six chairs that surround it.
The chairs look like we could have snatched them off of a street corner fifteen years ago.
(Wait..DID we??)
Bent..chipped..scuffed…legs being on their last legs…discolored fabric on the cushions from goodness
knows what was in the wet bathing suits that sat on them…
I decided right there and then.
No more pool parties or entertaining until we have a decent kitchenette.
“Is this for aesthetic purposes?” Jim wanted to know.
“No,” I answer. “We don’t NEED new chairs. We WANT new chairs.”
“We do?” he counters and quickly added, “a happy wife is a happy life, so I guess we DO want new
chairs”
Our search for the dinette set that looks like something sold beyond a Goodwill outlet began last
Saturday, the day before Easter.
Our fashion/decorating/life coach consultant Tami is on a cruise, so we had to make decisions on our
own.
Which turned out to be a disaster of Titanic proportions.
Which makes our misadventures totally worthy of this essay-length blog.
Our first stop was at Lowes, where I immediately became felled with a panic attack from the long lines
and the apathetic employees in this massive warehouse until one of them sensed my apprehension.
Her nametag read, “Hello! My name is “Don’t Ask.”
Don’t Ask told us that we were in the wrong place..that if we drove on Route 35 South for about three
miles, we’d get to “Big Lots” and they were having a Big Sale.
Which was a Big Lie.
You can’t have a Big Sale if all your lights are off and your doors are locked because you’re out of
business.
We’re already experiencing Shopper’s Fatigue and we hadn’t purchased a single thing.
Jim googles “dinette stores near me” and we find one less than a mile away, and I immediately feel like
Vivian Ward on Rodeo Drive, Julia Roberts’ hooker character from “Pretty Woman.”
The showroom looked like a buyer for Windsor Castle would shop there, and the saleslady just shook
her head and sent us packing. I could swear I heard this conversation with her co-worker as we were
leaving: “”The said ONLY METAL for the frame. The chubby wife wanted to know if we carried stuff
without arms. They said mopping the kitchen floor would cause a “wooden” frame to warp. Oh dear
lord, I finally have something to say at tomorrow’s dinner..I’m bringing the ham this year.”
We were in the car, heading north on route 35, when we remembered that we bought the kitchen table
at a place on this very highway. It was a store with two initials, which we couldn’t remember, but
because we’re foodies, we remembered what restaurant it was near. Even ‘though the sign on the door
said it would be open for another hour, it wasn’t. The owner either closed early for Easter, or was tipped
off by the Windsor Castle Lady that we were coming.
“I want my chairs and I want them now!”
I was exhausted, and as bent out of shape as the existing kitchen chairs.
“How hard can it be to buy six freaking kitchen chairs??”
I’ll answer that all right.
Hard enough to merit a blog.
Brace yourselves..I’ve only just begun.
Jim decided to search on Amazon and we immediately strike gold.
He found six vinyl kitchen chairs in white, with metal backings that perfectly match the bar stools left by the previous
owner of our home. They were in stock, available, durable, well priced, and could be delivered
two days later. Some assembly was required but Jim’s forte is reading manuals.
He’s a great manual laborer.
Problem solved.
Problem not solved.
Jeff Bezos only knows how to count billions.
He does not know the difference between six chairs and two..which is what he sent.
After an hour on line with “customer service” Jim gets an apology and a promise to deliver the six
matching chairs within two days, as long as he returned the original box, which he did, afterwards
requiring immediate surgery for a labor-induced hernia.
But at least the six new do it yourself chairs were en route. Our kitchen was going to be bright and airy,
beyond merely functional.
We wake up yesterday to abundant sunshine, the opposite forecast for Saturday, but everyone knows
it’s good luck if it rains on your wedding day.
The pool company comes to open for the season…relatively problem free.
The only problem was my new manicure, making my virgin fingertips virtually unusable, which is why
this essay is going to take three hours to type, which means if you’re an empath, you can spare the
twenty minutes it’ll take to read on the toilet.
These nails are so long!!
Man, I hope Cynthia Erivo has a bidet in every bathroom.
Just after lunch, the kitchenette arrives.
All two of the chairs.. again not six ugh.
Once again, customer service offered little help.
You’d think someone would say, “keep the two..we’ll send you four more just like them” but if you
thought that, you’d be wrong.
Another roll of masking tape, another trip to the UPS store, another hernia.
“I’ve had it with Amazon,” Jim says, something most of our Dem friends have been saying for months.
“Let’s go back to the initial store. Not our first stop—Lowes—but the upholsterer with the two initials.”
So off we go to a place I think was called “J.H. Upholstery”
The door is wide open but nobody is anywhere to be seen.
“Helloooo??” Jim calls. “Is anyone there?” We try another entrance, which leads us to a tile shop, and
then another entrance on the other side, which leads us to a… Korean nail salon!!!!
“Hellooo?” Jim calls out again, wondering why the owner wasn’t concerned that anyone could literally
walk off with anything in this unmanned showroom.
The owner, who had been upholstering something in the back room, apologized to us and tells us he
was working on a “hard stool”..something you just don’t say to people our age.
“We’re looking for a kitchenette set,” Jim says, careful not to use the more formal “dinette” description.
“We want metal”
“Everything in here is hand crafted from artisans and designers all over Italy,” he says. “I’m not sure I can
help you, but I might have something..what’s your price range?”
“Five hundred?” Jim says, a little timidly.
“I can work with that,” says The Upholster. “I have something very nice..four hundred fifty dollars per
chair.”
“Per chair??” Jim says, a little too alarmingly. “I thought that was the price for the whole set.”
“Hah! I’d be out of business if I charged that!”
“You’ll be out of business because you have no employees to guard the merchandise!’ I wanted to say
but didn’t.
We leave, defeated and chairless, when Jim has an epiphany.
“We want furniture right? Who sells furniture, according to virtually every commercial on TV? Bob,
that’s who! As in “Bob’s Discount Furniture”..let’s go!”
If you’ve ever been in an airport and witnessed a Moonie selling flowers, or if you’ve lived through the
eighties and have ever attended an “est” meeting, then you’ve pretty much been to Bob’s Discount
Furniture.
We are greeted by a feisty redhead with a toothy grin and open arms.
“Welcome to Bob’s..we are here to help. To help YOU!”
(She made it so personal)
“We’re here for metal chairs that won’t melt in the rain, “ says Jim.
“You mean like patio furniture?”
“No”..he continues. “For the kitchen. Where it won’t get warped by a bucket of Ajax.”
She introduced us to her trainee, and tells us that customer satisfaction is of utmost importance, as
though Bob’s Discount Furniture was a brothel.
And she convinces us to go with the wood because it’s all they had.
She shows us a set with six designer label, attractive, functional chairs in white or teal (that matched
the table) that could be delivered within a week..that would be assembled by their staff of
competent..assemblers??..in just a matter of hours.
The chairs had at two hundred and fifty pound weight limit, but we have no plans to entertain Donald
Trump in our home anyway, so we were good to go.
We had her assurance that everything was copacetic and a vision of a bright, shiny new kitchen.
We were sold.
Two hours later, we were still in the store, knee deep in documents and forms and assurances that we
had to pay absolutely nothing until delivery day, which would happen within a few weeks, and that we
could cancel our order at any time and for any reason.
We read the fine print , especially the part that tells us delivery can’t be guaranteed for up to eight
weeks, depending on the demands from the factory of this very popular item.
“Eight weeks? We were hoping to maybe entertain on the Fourth of July..?”
She once again assured us that cancellation is an option at any time, and then offererd us..are you
ready..coffee! Candy! Even ice cream!
I wondered if she’d be serving us from her van in the parking lot.
I wondered if there was an exit strategy.
I wondered what flavors of ice cream she was offering.
Even ‘though we thought we hadn’t signed anything legally binding, she insisted that we meet her
supervisor, Mike, visiting from North Carolina, the furniture capital of the eastern United States.
Mike didn’t want to talk furniture, he wanted to talk about University of Michigan football with Jim.
We’re fairly certain his car was the one with the Trump 2024 bumper sticker.
Twenty four hours later, I glance at the weather worn chairs in my kitchen as I try to tell this story,
wondering if I should have just kept my mouth shut and my desires silenced.
I wonder I’ll ever be able to type a coherent sentence ever again with these go forsaken glued-on nails.
I wonder if we’ll ever be able to get out of our contract with Bob.
I wonder if Amazon will ever be able to figure out how to send us more than two chairs in total.
I wonder if Bob’s Discount Furniture is actually a cult.
I wonder if any of my friends have the stamina to stick with this story to the bitter end.
I wonder if that whole time we were in Bob’s Discount Furniture’s Showroom that my poor sweet
husband realized his boxer briefs were on display
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