Progress in the Kitchen
Subtitle: Let's Hope it Continues and Nothing Goes Off the Rails Anytime Soon
I apologize in advance for the colloquialisms, but a Southern adage is a Southern adage: I ain't what I should be, and I ain't what I'm gonna be, but at least I ain't what I was.
You'll probably also notice that I really enjoy sampling paint colors.
Better Late Than Never
There are few things I know how to do well. (I’ve often said that beyond writing, I’m only really qualified to run a bar. Plus, lately my pop culture knowledge is even slipping – Justin Bieber, Prince Poppycock and any American Idol from the last 5 years don’t even make the radar. Not even my irrelevant knowledge is what it used to be.)
However, one thing I do extremely well is read a receipt. I’ve been a dedicated shopper since near-birth and switched to a clothing allowance at 12 since my desire to spend time at the mall was far greater than my mom’s. I’m not only a dedicated shopper; I’m a dedicated bargain shopper.
I may have no memory of algebra or geometry, but I can calculate a discount and sales tax with no trouble whatsoever. Buy one, get one free (higher price prevailing)? Please. I’ll go through the line twice just to make sure I can save three extra dollars.
In other words, don’t hand this one a receipt and expect me not to know what’s up.
The other day, I went to Home Depot for the umpteenth time this week. (Again, if you learn nothing from this blog, a) never buy an old house and b) never renovate said old house. Unless, of course, you have the patience of saint, and I don’t. But, also, don’t let that “old house rule” of mine stop you from buying mine should you be interested.)
I needed one last cabinet for my kitchen, and I knew that the 20% off sale on pre-manufactured cabinets was ending shortly. Being the bargain hunter that I am, I sped down to the Home Depot for the last of my cabinet collection.
As I was checking out, I looked down at the electronic pad and noticed no “-20%, you saved $20.80” beneath the original price.”
“Did you remember the sale discount?” I asked (nicely, I might add).
“It’s automatically factored in.”
Now, again reviewing my limited knowledge base, a) sales prices are never factored in and b) having spent too much time at Home Depot, I know all sales associates have to scan the weekly sales bar code to get the right discounts.
“Are you sure about that?” I said. “I think you need the …”
“It’s already in there,” the clerk said, and she called up the next customer in line.
Not only has my personal budget been tighter lately, but I also have a little trouble letting things go. I looked down at the receipt as we were about to walk to the parking lot again and again.
“This just isn’t right,” I said.
Fortunately, the SO knows all too well my tendency to obsess.
“And this is like $20,” I went on.
“Do you want to go back in?”
“No, it’s OK,” I said. “I’m fine.”
“Do you want to go back in?” he asked again. Sighing. (We had a bet going about how much time he was going to have to spend helping me at Home Depot, and I was already over my time limit by about five minutes.)
Almost before he had finished the question, I ran to the back of the store, checked the original price of the cabinet, ran back to the front of the store and beckoned him over to the customer service desk. (Once you cross me at the Home Depot, I will not deal with you again. Sadly, this severely limits who I can and cannot interact with at Home Depot.)
My new clerk did a return on the cabinet, and then ran it back up (making sure to scan the sheet of weekly specials). I could finally leave with my new cabinet and kicky savings.
Is this the most interesting story I’ve ever told? No. But, that’s what happens when you start renovating a home. (One of my friends keeps asking when I get a walker for all the stories I have to tell about Home Depot, Lowe’s and salvage home emporiums.)
But, at least you can all rest assured that while my pop culture knowledge and personal hygiene are slipping, I’m still razor sharp when it comes to getting my deals. Today’s agenda – searching for overstock tile. Try not to spend the entire weekend on the edge of your seat.
Meet My Husband
I am not a fan of the hard sell. I don't do well when people get in my face with "amazing offers," I don't like telemarketers that want to know "why I wouldn't be interested in their limited-time-only deal" and I really, really don't like large bins or buckets shoved in my face to collect change and dollars. (Yeah, I know that last one sounds mean, but come on, do you really like being solicited for money when all you want to do is run in the Wal-Mart for some shampoo and candy corn?)
That being sad, I'm also a huge softie. I find it very hard to say "no." Bring three side dishes to the party? Sure. Buy wrapping paper for your kid's school fundraiser? OK. I even used to have a hard time going into a store without any other customers in it because I felt guilty walking out without buying anything.
So, I suppose the real reason I don't like the hard sale is because I usually can't resist it. Unfortunately, like a dog can smell fear, I think most salesmen can still spot the softie in me from a mile off.
Then, I became an adult and realized that rampant spending -- not matter how difficult it was to say "no" -- wasn't going to do me well in life.
My real breaking point came one day as I was sitting in a gym membership office. (Number of times I have attempted to join a gym: 10+; number of times I have actually joined a gym: 0.) I had been there for 20 minutes with no end to the sales spiel in sight, and I was so, so hungry.
"If you put down just $5.oo today, I can guarantee you our special rate through the end of September," some very short man in a very red polo shirt kept saying.
"I need to think about it," I said.
"But it's just $5.00. Who doesn't have $5.00?"
For the first time, I realized that I just didn't want to cave. I knew I wasn't coming back to that gym (too many attractive D.C. denizens with way too much energy on the treadmills), and I really wanted that $5.oo for the McDonald's value meal I was going to eat as a pre-dinner snack on the way home.
"I'm not going to give you $5.00," I said, and yet, the conversation continued to go on and on in much the same way. When I finally did escape the gym membership office, I was exhausted. I said "no" for the first time, but it was far too time-consuming.
I needed a better way.
A few weeks later, I was in a department store buying linens (because I have an obsession with purchasing new sheets), and the all-too-familiar pitch came: "You know you can save 15% today if you sign-up for our in-store credit card."
"That's OK. I have enough credit cards," I said.
"But, you won't only save money on this purchase. You'll save 15% on everything you buy today."
And, that's when it came to my -- the line that has saved me hours upon hours of time in the years since. "Actually," I said, "it's my husband who won't let me have anymore credit cards."
"Oh, I understand," the clerk said, and she ran my debit card and put the sheets in a bag. "Have a nice day."
It was amazing (and sad for this women's libber), but just the implied presence of a man ended any attempt at further selling. (As they say, when a man says "no," it's the end of the conversation. When a woman says "no," it's the beginning of a negotiation.)
I tried it out again a few weeks later.
"If we upgrade your Internet and cable service today, you'll have free HBO for 10 whole days," the telemarketer said.
"I'm sorry," I said. "You'll have to call back later, my husband is the one who makes all of those decisions around the house."
"Of course. When do you think he'll be home?"
"I'd try Tuesday around 1:00," I said, knowing very well no one would be home then.
For an extreme people pleaser, this "husband" of mine was like finding the holy grail of avoidance.
And, when it comes to big purchases, my fictitious husband is the best.
"This mattress is only $900.00. You wouldn't believe what a steal that is, and I can only give you that price through today."
"I'll have to talk about it with my husband."
"You do that and give me a call."
In the past eight years, my "husband" has gotten me off car lots, out of more credit card offers than I can count and away from many a high-pressure gym guy (like I said, I almost join at least once a year).
He's also evolved quite a bit in the time that we've been together. My husband is no one-dimensional creation. Of course, he's in the military, so we can't sign up for any lawn services because "we never know when we'll be moving again." And, he can be a tad controlling and tight with the wallet -- I'm banned from both credit cards and have had an allowance at times. But, he's also quite liberal ("He'd kill me if I put that McCain sign in our yard") and takes great care of me ("Just the oil change today -- my husband handles the rest when he takes my car into the shop").
The older I get, the better I get at asserting myself. After all, I was only 22 when my "husband" came into being, so it's only natural that we'd do some growing apart over the years. But, every so often, when I'm just too tired or the guy at Best Buy is just a little too pushy about the quadrillion extra insurance options, I find he's still there to save me.
"I won't be getting the five-year extended warranty plus freak accident coverage today for my $40.00 DVD player. You don't know my husband -- he can fix just about anything."
In Which Laurel Must Hire a Plumber
Home ownership -- it’s an integral part of the American dream. Your very own place, your very own yard, a place to call your own. There’s just one tiny little pesky part of that grand dream of home ownership no one ever tells you during the “sell” phase – home repair.
Before I owned my own home, I had to call someone about home fix-it related issues exactly twice in my life. Once, I dropped a diamond necklace down the sink and called the plumber whose coupon was on the front cover of the yellow pages. (There was a diamond involved. Do I really need to describe how desperate I was?)
A plumber arrived within an hour, and after a five-minute fix, I wrote him a check for $125.00. (So much for the coupon.) On the plus side, he at least taught me how to save my own jewelry from the ell in the pipe in the future. On the down side, I went from having an ordinary, expense-free morning to a $100.00+ one. I was learning that nothing about hiring a handyman is ever cheap – or easy.
The other time I needed a handyman, it also happened to be a plumber. I was renting the upstairs of a house in Georgetown with four other girl friends during our senior year of college. It was a Saturday, and there was a clog. Our landlord was out of town, so what would have been a relatively stress-free situation quickly went to DEFCON one. It was already a stretch with five girls sharing one bathroom. Remove the toilet from the equation, and you’ve got real trouble.
With one roommate out of town and two suddenly having “plans,” it was left to me and another roommate to figure out how to handle the problem. As per usual, I turned to the yellow pages. (Only, this time I actually opened the thing.) Being all of 20, I went with the first big ad that said “no problem to small” and “available all hours of the day or night.” References, credentials and estimates didn’t even cross my mind.
“Hello, I need to hire a plumber,” I said as soon as someone answered the phone. “My toilet is clogged, and I really need it fixed as soon as possible.”
“We’ll send someone out right away,” the man on the other end of the line said, and he proceeded to take down my address and phone number.
When I got off the phone, I was relieved and couldn’t believe how easily I had taken care of what I considered to be a very grown-up problem. Then, my roommate and I went to pacing and trying not to drink or think about running water while we watched for the plumber’s arrival outside of the window.
About 30 minutes later, a blue Dodge Mini-van parked across the street. It reminded me of the one my family owned circa 1985 through the early ‘90s. Only, this was 2000, and our family car had had all of its seats in the back.
At that moment, my stomach dropped. “I think that’s our plumber,” I said, my gut telling me that it had been way too premature to pat myself on the back for this one.
“No way,” my roommate said.
“I’m afraid so.”
“Surely …”
A man in jeans and a white undershirt climbed out of the driver’s seat and opened the back of the van. In almost clown-like fashion, four younger men rolled out of the back of the car while someone else exited via the front passenger side door.
“No way,” my roommate said.
The man from the driver’s side and the man from the passenger’s seat of the car crossed the street and rang our doorbell. Luckily, it seemed like the four men from the back of the van were only there to spectate and smoke cigarettes on the curb, so at least we didn’t have half a dozen men on their way in.
We greeted the two “plumbers” and took them to our bathroom. (I’m still doubtful about whether or not they were actual plumbers despite the fact that they had a plunger and snake with them.)
“This is a nice house,” one of them said.
“But you sure got a mess in here,” the other said, staring into our bathroom.
“Well, you know,” I said, “with all of our boyfriends over all the time, there’s no telling what can happen. If they weren’t at football practice right now, I’m sure one of them could have helped us out.”
(1) Of course this was all lies, 2) I know the Georgetown football team really wasn’t much of a threat, but 3) a lifetime of procedural dramas and time with my father will cause your brain to default into a mode in which you make any and all strangers think someone will always be looking for you should you disappear and that that person is very large with possible rage control issues.)
Twenty minutes later, they were done, and I handed them a check. (I had asked for the price while they were toiling away in the bathroom and wrote it quickly in the hopes that we could usher them from our house as quickly as possible once the work was complete.)
“A check?” the first plumber said. “Do you think there’s any way you could pay us in cash?”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “This is all we have.”
“We’d be more than happy to drive you to the ATM,” the other plumber said.
Now, I recognize that bad things happen to good people all the time, no matter how careful you are. But, I also knew that I had no intention of going out of this world because I decided to crawl in the back of a burned out minivan with six strange, large men I had never seen before that day and my ATM card.
“I don’t have an ATM card,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
Both men looked at my roommate.
“Me neither,” she said. Was it reasonable for two college-age women not to have ATM cards in the 21st century? No, but I didn’t really care.
We both just started walking towards the front door with the check in hand, and thankfully the plumbers followed. After they were out the door (that we quickly bolted), we watched the whole team file back into the van and head away.
I learned a little lesson about the Yellow Pages that day, and we’ve had trust issues ever since.
Now, as a home owner in the midst of a kitchen renovation, I have to call plumbers, electricians and general handymen all the time. Even when I only go with recommendations from friends, I dread the process of finding phone numbers, getting estimates and waiting to see how much I get to spend on whatever has gone wrong in my 1928-era bungalow that day. Home repair = high stress, and that’s all there is to it.
In short, renters rejoice. Your landlord is probably crazy. (Generally, they all are, but I think that's what too much home repair does to people. It's like the chicken and the egg, and I have no idea if landlording or home repair comes first.) And I’m sure you have some neighbors with noise issues, but the odds of finding six men outside your door ready to take you to the nearest source of cash are probably much lower. You might even find the phone book helpful.
And at the end of the day, the person responsible for it all isn’t you, and in my book, that’s the best present of all.