A Sofa

I'm on the lookout for a new sofa. And this small endeavor has become a heck of a lot more complicated than I ever thought possible. And it is virtually impossible when you are toting around a bored-out-of-her-mind three-year-old and a fussy, snotty little baby. So I went by myself last night, after Justin came home from work, hoping desperately to find the perfect sofa, seeing in my mind the heavenly light shining down on a most comfortable, reasonably priced, easy to clean, piece of cottage-y furniture. Well. I went first to a huge furniture store that has great prices, good selection and has the warm and fuzzy feeling of a used car lot. (I refuse to name names...American Furniture Warehouse.) I spent at least 30 precious, and I mean precious, minutes seeking out a possible sofa and then another 15 sitting on it, reading about it, debating the price versus style, wondering about the color: is it more yellow-ish just because of the fabulous fluorescent lights they have going on here?, calling Justin, etc. I asked some swanky salesman if I could checkout a couple of pillows to make sure the color was what I was going for and he said something like, "Oh sure! Just talk to the manager." So off I went, with pillows in tow, to find the manager. I went to the now-ironical "help desk" and they looked at me suspiciously and said I needed to talk to the salesperson in the back. I went to the back and they told me I needed to talk to the "girls" in the front. I found the teenage-looking girls in the front and asked the million dollar question: How can I take these cheap-ass pillows home to see how they will look in my living room? Blank stares. Now, I ask you, is it crazy to assume that you can take some swatch of material home to make sure the color works before you plop down hundreds of dollars? And, by the way, this furniture store (American Furniture Warehouse) has this "We Want You Happy Before You Go Home" thing that basically means you better like your furniture when you buy it because you are stuck with it. Period. So I repeat the question as this older creepy salesman swaggers up, too close, beside me and the tiny teenager says, "Well it's a hundred dollar deposit to take the pillow." "Okay," I say, thinking: I just recently checked out 5 swatches at Macy's for $25, but hey, whatever. To which she replies, "And you have to have them back tonight." Timeout. It is now past six o'clock, Justin is holding down the fort with two tired and cranky girls, starting dinner, the traffic is terrible and I'm going to run home, look at my pillows (without the sunlight, mind you) and then bring them back along with making a $100 deposit? I don't think so. So I blurt out loudly and somewhat crazily, "Do you WANT people to buy furniture from you?" She looks at me apathetically and says, "Sorry. Those are the rules." Perhaps I should have calmly asked to speak to the ever elusive manager but I was way past sane and adult behavior by this point. I channeled Amelia and with an exasperated and frustrated yell of "UHHH!" I literally pounded my fists into the pillows on the front desk. Then I turned and stormed out.

I called Justin immediately and yelled in the parking lot how much I hated this place and drove to Macy's where I was, in comparison, treated like royalty. And they were actually helpful. Then I had to drive past American Furniture on my way home, to which I gracefully gave them the ole' middle finger. And instead of buying a new sofa I decided to buy a chocolate-cherry-love-whatever Blizzard from Dairy Queen. I ate some while I drove and also decided a Blizzard could be just as good as a new sofa. In this case, maybe even better.