I have been married for two weeks, and have not had a single day alone with my wife. For the month prior to the wedding my family was in town every weekend, and every weekend since. I have spent the past week hanging out with my 17 year old brother.
I found myself screaming in the car today.
This world can be the most ridiculous place on Earth.
We bought a bed from Sears. Brand new, queen-size, pillow-top... Mmmmm-Mmm, laying on it in the store it felt like one of the Mythical Mattresses of childhood television advertizing.
A waking dream.
It was delivered on Wednesday. Well... sort of. I was with the family when The Dr. called. The delivery truck arrived, unloaded three boxes; one marked "Bed Frame," one marked "Box Spring," & one marked "Mattress." The trouble being that the mattress box contained a second box spring.
Qua? A what?
Yes, that's right, you heard right; a second box spring.
The Dr. Relayed to me, through a voice shaking with frustration & back pain, that after X number of phone calls the most useful thing she had gotten out of the people at Sears came from the warehouse boys, with whom, it seems, our troubles began.
When the mattress arrived at the warehouse in question, it was damaged. Now the boys who work there decided, in their infinite wisdom, that it would be a far greater service to us if, rather than pick up the phone to call us, they were to simply pack in a mislabelled box-spring. It would also seem that the wisdom of this decision struck them as being so utterly divine that it not only extended to not calling us, but to tell The Dr., when she called, that all was well, and to say not a word to the delivery guy.
It was then that I began making the compulsory "I used to be a retail manager, so I know your bullshit script" phone calls. It turns out that the mattress department manager is a really nice guy.
So now, more than a week after the purchase, we are sleeping on an air bed.
I am not amuzed.
The new living room set is awfully nice though.
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On a side note, I was grabbing something out of the cupboard ealier, and the Lemon Meringue pie recipe, on the cornmeal box, caught my eye. Specifically the call for 3 "slightly beaten" egg yolks.
I was left to wonder if that meant the pie needed the egg yolks to be duffed up a bit, or if it just needed them demoralized.
These are two distinctly different processes.
