Tag: Remodeling Shenanigans

You were told that you just had to ask to get your money back.

But with these clowns you instead find that your sanity is under attack…

“I know!” I said to myself. “I’ll just slide right into Home Depot on the way to work and return this now-infamous sh*t-brown paint they accidentally sold me. It makes more sense to take the 5 minutes to do it now, on account of it being 3 fewer left turns compared to doing it on the way home from work.”

And I was confident in the ease of the upcoming transaction, thanks to Robert-From-Another-Mother-Home-Depot’s reassurance that they would gladly right the wrong they had done did me.

Oh, and if you’re clueless what I’m going on about, catch up by clicking the two hyper-links above in chronological order. Then you will understand my trials and tribulations at the hands of PaperKraft. Now, back to the story…

“Home Depot customer service and returns, how may I help you today?” droned the rep behind the returns desk, who–*checks nametag*–happened to be yet another ‘Robert’ in this story.

“Yeah, I need to return this paint. They accidentally mixed up the wrong color for me.” I said with unearned confidence.

“Uh…doy. We can’t accept paint that’s been mixed once it’s left the store,” he stated flatly.

“Oh, no, yes you can. You see, it’s actually a funny story…I found a glitch in Home Depot’s paint system’s Matrix, and Koko didn’t hear my protests when I caught it and forced me to take it home anyways, and then I talked to Robert in the paint department–not your paint department, the one across town–and he reassured me that I would be able to return this paint, and–“

“Once the paint has left the store, it can’t be returned,” Robert interrupted me.

“Are you listening to me? I have stumbled upon such a rare occurrence that happens every 100 thousand years or so, when the sun doth shine and the moon doth glow, and the grass doth grow-oh-whoa-oh.”¹Okay, so I’ve been watching/listening to Tenacious D’s hit 2003 song Tribute with my younger daughter waaaaay too much…

“Huh?” ol’ Robbie-Boy looked at me with slightly crossed eyes. “Whatever. But sorry, store policy. You were supposed to check the paint color before you left.”

“My Dude, I’m telling you I did, but ol’ Koko made me buy it anyways. Lemme speak to your manager–I’m sure he or she can sort this out lickety-split…”

“Yes, I am the manager,” lied the assistant manager. “How can I help you?”

“You see, I need to return this pai–“

“Sorry, you can’t return paint once it’s mixed and left the store,” she interrupted me.

“Please, I need you to listen–this isn’t your run-of-the-mill paint purchase and return. We broke the Universe with this one,” I protested.

“Before you buy the paint, we make sure that you check the paint color. That’s why there’s a little daub we put on the label of each mixed can. It is your responsibility to make sure it is the correct color,” said the ass-hat–er, I mean, ‘ass. manager’.

“I did tell your girl Koko that it was the wrong color! When I told her it was way too dark, she told me that it would get lighter as it dries. And then refused to remix because she had use the right code–a code that I had verified. But about that code…”

“She actually said it gets lighter as it dries? No one says that! She should know better–it gets darker as it dries. Still, I don’t know if we can accept your return.”

“Look, your rep made me buy paint that I was very clear was the wrong color. But, there are some key details about the paint code for PaperKraft to back me up (and maybe get Koko a little bit off the hook). Let me show you how your system has two colors assigned to the same paint code.”

“I can’t access that, but they can over at the paint department. Let’s go over there…”

We mosied the 15 feet over to the nearby paint section of the store, where we were greeted not by Koko, but by some gal I can only describe as way too easier to be mistaken for a bouncer at a lesbian bar (though, I can’t actually vouch for how she/they identify in that particular department).

I proceeded to walk her through the process of getting the system to pull up the two very different paint recipes for PaperKraft. She seemed to not understand what I was getting at, so I was pretty exasperated by the time she flipped her monitor around to show me the color preview for PaperKraft on her computer screen.

“Wait?!? You have color previews??? Both Koko and Robert at the other Home Depot claimed they couldn’t tell what the color was going to look like! Now, take a look at that color, and now look at the paint cans I’m trying to return. Any ----- idiot can see that they are two totally different colors!”

Me, in that moment:

“Huh. Interesting. What is it exactly you want me to do?” she still seemed a bit lost.

And honestly, I was too. I didn’t what else to show these fools in support of my case.

“I guess I can mix up a sample and compare them,” she suggested.

She proceeded to do just that, and–surprise, surprise–she clearly ended up with the color I had originally wanted instead of the crap-tastic colors I had plopped on her counter.

“Yeah…okay. Now what?” ----- she was dense.

“Well, first, you need to run it up the IT chain to whoever can fix the ----- system and recode the imposter Paper Kraft–I think the difference is whether it’s one word or two–so you don’t blow up the Universe next time…”

I paused and took a second glance at Betty The Bouncer and the assistant manager and realized that that request was a lost cause.

“And of course, I want a refund for the paint that Koko incorrectly mixed and then refused to remix it,” I was about to lose my mind with these fools.

“I don’t know if we can accept a paint return…” the dumbass manager repeated herself like a mindless drone.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake! Well, I’m not leaving until I get a refund,” I declared.

You would have thought that such assertiveness by a customer who the had done did wrong would be enough for them to acquiesce and make their victim whole.

But…nope. Instead the three of us found ourselves staring at each other in the world’s most boring Mexican standoff for what felt like 5 minutes at least. ----- them. They weren’t going to get rid of me that easy.

Finally, the asst manager piped up.

“Well, I suppose we might be able to give you store credit. Would that work?”

“Oh, geez, yes! Can we get that taken care of ASAP? I’m already late for work because of all this stupidity,” I said with some sense of relief.

“Alright, let’s just take these cans back over to Robert at the returns desk…”

“Robert, if you could just put this paint return on a in-store credit card, mmm-kay?” the asst. manager instructed the gentleman with my same namesake at the return desk.

“Uh…okay. Sure thing, Boss Lady,” he complied, as he tip-tap-typed-scanned my paint into their returns system.

He paused for a few moments staring at it quizzically,

“You can’t return paint–” he started before being interrupted by his superior.

“Just push this button here to override…” she said impatiently.

I rolled my eyes so hard they about popped out. This whole ----- time she could have over-ridden their store policy, but, noooooooo, she had to go and be a totally pain in the ass.

After a few more button taps, he made awkward eye contact with me again.

“We can’t process this without the original receipt…” he mumbled.

“Well, Robert, did you ever think to ask me for it? No, I don’t have it. But I have the card I purchased it with. Shouldn’t that work?” I retorted.

Robert gave his Boss Lady a sideways glance looking for direction.

“Yes, that should work,” she said.

“See, Robert, how hard was that, really?” I mouthed off as I slid my card.

I wouldn’t want to get into a fist-fight with Betty The Bouncer hanging back in the paint department, but Robert? I could take this clown down with a single punch to the neck.

“Uh…it doesn’t look like the paint was bought on that card…I guess the system won’t let us refund the paint.”

Me, on the inside in that moment:

I wasn’t about to come this far, climb these mountains, fight all these battles, only to fall down at the finish line.

“Hey jack ass, I probably just swiped my card backwards. Let me swipe it again.”

“Oh…okay. Yeah, it’s showing up now…what button do I press again?” the man was testing every last ounce of patience of mine.

“OVERRIDE. Press the ----- override button! You, sir, are not worthy of the noble title of ‘Robert’. You’re ruining the name for the rest of us…”

The point of the story is…aw, fudge-colored paint, I don’t know. There’s gotta be a moral of the story in here somewhere. Hmm…let’s see…

Well, if nothing else, if you don’t think you have any potential anger management issues boiling under the surface, may I recommend visiting your local hardware store and–short-circuiting the process based on my hard-earned lessons–ask to speak to the assistant manager.

…

…

…

That’s it. That’s the advice. You don’t have to talk to them about anything specific, just talk to them about anything. Soon enough, you too will be like:

Content created on: 5/6 August 2023 (Sat/Sun)

How will you ever know if the reason for that silly paint mix-up was merely asinine?

It’s quite possible the truth will blow your mind…

“Hey, listen up, Koko,¹I can’t remember her name, but it was something along the lines of being borderline ridiculous I was just in there buying paint from you, and you totally sold me the wrong color.”

I was on the phone with the paint department of my semi-local Home Depot, and somebody was about to get the wrong end of my Righteous Indignation Stick. And that ‘somebody’ was gonna be Koko–after all, she was the one directly responsible for the painting pickle I was in.

Oh, that’s right–you’ve walked into the middle of yet another one of my Remodeling Shenanigans stories. If you’re just now joining us, and missed last week’s broadcast, you can catch up and read that post here.

The short version of the story is that I was trying to get Home Depot to color-match a specific color of paint–HGSW2507: PaperKraft to be seemingly overly precise–and despite my objections, Koko more or less forced me to go home with 3 cans of this paint color:

What’s so wrong with this picture is that the paint is supposed to match the color of the wall in the background. But from the samples on the lid, it is clear that we got Shanghai’d into buying a lovely shade of “baby diarrhea brown” instead of the much less ocularly offensive Paper Kraft. And, as a reminder, Koko had insisted that “the paint will get lighter as it dries”, which all now know was a load of baby bullsh*t.

And I was going to let ol’ Koko hear all about it. Hence, my phone call/airing of my grievances.

“Oh, it was the wrong shade? Ok, bring it back in then,” was her annoyingly calm reply.

“Well, I can’t exactly do that–it’s a 40 minute drive for me, and I’m about to be in the middle of putting my girls down for the night. But I need the right paint no later than first thing tomorrow morning. I don’t know exactly what I want you to do, but whatever it is I need done stat!”

I then proceeded to theorize at great length that perhaps she had accidentally used a darker white base paint, and that is how we ended up with the suspiciously fecal-esque paint.

“No, that was the right base. It’s what’s used for most colors except the lightest ones…like off-white,” was her response.

“Off-white! Exactly! That’s what I’m trying to tell you! Paper Kraft is and off-white color! I swear, we need to be using the Ultra Pure White base…though that sounds almost racist now that I saw it aloud…” I trailed off, distracted by my own thoughts.

“Look, Mon, just bring the paint back in as soon as you can and I’ll fix it by adding the right tint or whatever it takes. See you tomorrow?”

“Okay, well, I’m pretty sure you’re not going to be able to fix it by adding anything, but you’re dang straight I’m going to be bringing this paint back to you. Not tomorrow, but probably Tuesday after I get off work.”

“Great. Just bring it back in as soon as you get the chance, and we’ll get you taken care of…”

“Hmmm…I’m not really satisfied with the idea that she just used the wrong base,” I pondered aloud to myself paint, “and I’m pretty sure I’m not crazy–Paper Kraft is off-white, right? This requires some more investigation…let’s see what happens when I do a DuckDuckGo image search for PaperKraft paint…”

First that popped up before my inquiring eyes confirmed that I was right to be full of righteous anger, and I wasn’t just being a self-righteous bastard:

Surely, you, too, Dear Reader, can clearly see all the off-white samples there on the bottom row. Statistically speaking, “Paper Kraft” can only be interpreted as an off-white, not sh–wait just tick… *scrolls down a hair*

“Wait, what’s this??? I’d recognized that sewer-water shade from a mile away! What is the name of this horrid hue most foul?!?” I did do declare to my computer screen.

Let me zoom in for you playing along at home:

“You gotta be effin’ kidding me–‘Craft Paper‘???” I continued my monologue. “What a bunch of buttholes to go and have ‘Paper Kraft’ and ‘Craft Paper’! Who does that? Sherwin Williams, you Sher-win are a big jerk!”

Yeah, that’s not just setting us all up to fail or nothin’…well, at least now I had a better scientific theory as to how such a royal funk-up could happen with the paint codes…

“Say there, My Beautiful Bride, any chance you’ll be going be a Home Depot on your way to feed Roberta’s cats?”

It had only recently occurred to me that while I wouldn’t be in the geographic vicinity of the offending Home Depot any time in the next couple of days, the wife was going to be going right past one on her way to feed her former boss’s cats that evening. (I won’t go into the whole multi-thousand dollar cat-sitting gig that she had found herself suckered into–that’s a story for another time…just thought I would vaguely mention it though…)

“Yeah, I suppose so. You need me to pick up anything?” she replied through the static of her cellphone.

“You bet I do! I think I figured out the whole paint situation, and I think I get the right color made. I’ll call up their paint department first and make sure they got things straight. You should be able to pick it up on your way back.”

“Okie-dokie!” I’m pretty sure she said before hanging up.

At that point I got on the horn with paint department of this other, hopefully more helpful, Home Depot. A mature gentlemen picked up on the other end of the line.

“Paint department, how can I help you?”

At this point I’ll spare you the play-by-play detail of this phone call, but I’ll try to break down the key moments. First of all, my dude said he could pull up codes, but the system didn’t allow him to preview them. That was a pain in the neck, since I couldn’t ask him to describe to me what to expect from anything he might pull up.

Speaking of ‘pull up’, he eventually discovered that there were two ‘Paper Krafts’ in the system, though it remains unclear whether one of them was spelled with a ‘C’ instead of a ‘K’. And, to his amazement, when he looked at the ‘recipe'²The different amounts of the primary colors that are mixed into the base white paint. Much like an RGB code, for you ----- nerds out there. they produced two very different colors.

He totes be like:

“I knew it!” I said in that particular moment, feeling rather vindicated. Though I have to admit, I wasn’t too pleased about my knack for finding the proverbial ‘Glitch in the Matrix’ in the computer systems of home improvement stores (there a couple of untold stories involving me absolutely breaking the point-of-sale system over at Lowe’s–involuntarily, of course).

We then proceeded to mix the color recipe in our imaginations, trying to figure out which one was going to be the correct off-white Paper Kraft. Funny enough, I did actually have the Sherwin Williams (not HGSW) recipe in front of me, on the old can of paint I had found in our garage from the 2021 remodel. Not so funny enough, Home Depot has a completely different recipe system, so it was like the home improvement version of the Tower of Babel.

Eventually, we nailed down with 98.7% confidence which Paper Kraft was the right one I needed.

“Okay…so can I put in an order for this color while you have it in front of you, and then have my wife pick it up in an hour or so?” I requested, self-assured that I had finally slayed this beast.

“Oh, no, we can’t do that. We don’t take orders over the phone. No sir…we’ve mixed the wrong color too many times that way, so now the policy is that somebody must be standing here in person ordering it.”

“Jeez, you gotta be kidding me, after all we’ve been through together and what it’s taken to get us to this point? How can I have any assurance that the right recipe gets mixed up when she shows up?”

“I’ll leave a note,” he stated flatly.

“Um…okay. I guess. Well, can I get your name, in case she runs into any trouble?”

“Oh, sure, my name’s Robert,” paint department Robert informed me.

“Hah! I’m a Robert, too! That’s gotta be good sign…right?” narrator-of-this-story BJ quipped.

“Indubitably.”

“One last thing…how do I get my money back?”

Silly me, I about forgot to ask the Million Dollar Divided By 6666.667 Question.

“No problem–that was clearly an error due to our system. Bring it in and we’ll refund it for you.”

“Shucks, Robert, you are the best! I’ll do that as soon as I get the chance.”

..and from there, everything went as smooth as the bowel movement of a meat-eater who’s just popped an Ex-Lax suppository…

…

…

JK Kidding, of course it didn’t go smoothly from there. After that I had put in an online order for the base paints, and had instructed My Beautiful Bride to pick them up from the Pick Up desk, and then take them to the paint department to have her prepaid paint mixed up.

Well, she hung out from 7 to 8 pm for one of us to get the text notification that the online order was ready for pickup, before giving up and heading home literally seconds before I finally got it at 8:16 pm. She was already halfway home and told me “Fuck it–I got feed Roberta’s fat-ass cats in the morning. I’ll pick it up on my way back then.”

Anyways, I eventually did get the paint later in the day that I had over-optimistically estimated that I would need it, though–surprise, surprise–I didn’t actually end up painting anything until 3 or 4 days later.

Welp…with that out of the way, the only left to do to get full resolution is the easy-peasy task of returning the poo-poo paint and getting my $150 back…

Stay tuned…

Content created on: 28/29/30 July 2023 (Fri/Sat/Sun)

Painting your mom’s new pad is an honorable task.

But whatever you do, son, at least make sure it doesn’t end up looking like a**…

“So, Mom, what color would you like me to paint your walls?”

After making endless decisions-by-committee related to remodeling our Farmstead out in the country, I was more than happy to delegate one to an individual. No debating, no hemming and hawing, no compromise. Only one person’s opinion to consider. Could it possibly get any simpler than that?

And while my mother isn’t the most decisive person on the block, you gotta give her credit for recognizing that and at least attempting to mitigate it. The classic indecisive move here would have been, “I don’t care, whatever you want.” Which, of course, we all know is the most aggravating answer one might receive when attempting to consider the desires of another person.

Instead, what she did was pure genius: in her reply she added two tiny letters to that phrase and turned the paint world upside down: “I don’t care, whatever you wanted.”

“Yeah,” she continued, “whatever color it is that you have in your living room now will work for me up in the Loft.”

I couldn’t believe it–it was like music to my ears: a pre-made decision. Two years ago we had remodeled our house in town and in the process had much of it painted, which meant that I was pretty sure I had unequivocal evidence of our previous paint choice–a ‘light light beige/brown’, or, alternatively, an ‘off off-white’–either in my emails to the contractor, or in the form of a spare can of paint lying around in our garage.

Yup, there sure is something special about knowing exactly what you want.

And in this case, what we wanted was “HGSW2507 Paper Kraft”, to be exact…

“So I understand that this the Home Depot paint department–I saw the big orange sign out front when I came in–but is there any chance you could color match a paint code from, say, Lowe’s?”

I don’t know why I felt so silly asking the question, since pretty much any major home improvement place or paint store will color match any color from all the other major brands. In fact, that’s what happened the first time around. While “HGSW” in our code of interest stands for “HGTV by Sherwin Williams”, it’s actually Lowe’s that carries those colors, and not your local Sherwin Williams paint store. But when our contractor back in ’21 insisted on using Sherwin Williams, he had no problem getting them to whip up a batch of Paper Kraft.

My current dilemma centered around the fact that pretty much every can of paint sold by both Sherwin Williams and Lowe’s is loaded with crap-quality product. Or at least according to the Gospel of Consumer Reports Ratings. So I was dead-set on using something of much better quality, Behr Marquee–which as you may have already figured out, was sold by Home Depot.

“Of course, we can! What color did you need?” replied the older Jamacain emigre behind the paint desk.

A wave of relief washed over me. Here I had been fretting about how to get the right color–silly me! I had just wasted the last hour sitting in my car in the parking lot, perusing ‘Paint Color Matching’ websites, the whole while telling my two daughters “Patience, children! Daddy just needs a few more minutes to figure out what color to ask for…” a good 15+ times (side note: do I smell the childhood trauma wrought by too many broken parental promises brewing here? Indubitably).

“What are these Paint Color Matching websites of which you speak?” you ask? Well, in theory it sounds pretty simple: you tell the interwebs your color code and what brand of paint you would really like to use, and it tells you the name of the color that is the closest match in your chosen brand. It would be great if it actually worked, but usually you just end up more frustrated and confused than when you started.

If it did work, though, I feel like it is a much safer bet to do it this way, especially in our case where we didn’t need the paint for the Loft to be a perfect match to our living room walls in town. As my logic goes, at least if I ask Home Depot to give me their “Periwinkle Blue”, for example, I can be pretty sure I’m going to get what they advertise as Periwinkle Blue. However, if you ask them to interpret another company’s paint code, then there was much more room for error–and the possibility for the paint dude or dudette to point the finger at you in the case that things were to go awry.

“Great! Can I give you the paint code?” I asked her.

“No, no, just give me the name, and it will automatically pull up the code,” she replied.

“Okay, then, it’s ‘Paper Kraft’…” I paused for a moment, wondering if I should clarify that ‘Kraft’ begins with ‘K’ and not ‘C’ in this case.

“Ah, yes, here it is…HGSW2507?”

I glanced down at the note on my phone.

“Yes, 2507–that’s the one!” I confirmed with confidence.

Given that paint codes are unique, I could rest easy that we had successfully met the challenge of getting the exact color of paint I needed, from the brand that I wanted.

“Come back in about 10 minutes and that’ll be ready for you sir…”

“Huh, that’s odd. This seems a lot darker than I remember our walls at home being. Are you sure this is Paper Kraft?”

I stared at the little smear of color that they daub on the label of mixed paint cans so you can verify it looks as it should. And what should it look like on the cans of paint I was about to buy? Well, it didn’t look so much as an ‘off off-white’ but more of a ‘poopy crap-brown’.

“Yes, I’m absolutely sure that’s HGSW2507. That’s what you wanted, right?” she said with an air of no-nonsense.

“Yeah…” I just kept staring at it. Something seemed mighty amiss here. “…but that is waaaaaaay too dark. That can’t be it.”

“Oh, don’t worry it will get lighter as it dries,” she said, somewhat dismissively.

“Really? I don’t think it could possibly get light enough…”

“I assure you, sir, that it will get lighter,” she said firmly.

“Man, I really don’t remember our walls being this dark. Let me try to find a picture of our walls at home…”

She just stood there tapping her finger impatiently, while I discovered that I had taken exactly zero pictures in or near our living room in the past 3-4 months.

“Well?!?” she inquired indignantly.

“Ummm…well…I haven’t found a good pic of it yet,” I stammered nervously.

Was she gaslighting me, or was I crazy? Maybe our walls were darker than I seemed to recall? After all, what was she going to do if I asked her to do it again? She was going to use the exact same code, and therefore the exact same formula of various tints and hues, and we all knew we would end up with the same sh*t-brown that was guaranteed to “get lighter as it dries.”

“Trust me, it’s the right color–it’s the code you verified with me you wanted, and in the paint world, the code might as well be the Word of The Jesus” she assured me with a mix of confidence and impatience.

Not knowing what else to do–besides curse my early-onset dementia?–I took my 3 cans of dubious paint and headed to the checkout.

“She better be right about this,” I muttered to myself. “With all the progress tomorrow that my well-experienced buddy Matt assured me he and I would make on the Loft, we’re definitely going to need that paint ready to go…”

“Oh, son of a biscuit–I knew I wasn’t crazy!”

Back home, I decided the best way to check if I had the right color was to hold up the paint can next to my wall and take a picture.

And, you, too, would be dropping an adult potty word or two if you were staring at this:

That’s my living room wall in the background, and in the foreground, you can see the schmears o’sh*t that are clearly not even remotely close to being the same color.

Oh, and you can also see where I accidentally dropped the lid in the paint itself. Only moments earlier I had gone out into our garage and dug up the can of leftover paint we had from the 2021 remodel, and opened them both up to compare the two. You know, in the off chance that it was indeed really dark before drying to a much, much lighter white. (Spoiler alert: the paint in the older can was as Caucasian as they come.)

Well, at least the good news is that I wasn’t effin’ crazy. Bad news was that I was stuck with a color that almost made my poor mother vomit when she saw it–“It looks like a baby had diarrhea,” were her exact words, I believe–and I didn’t have the time to trek the 40 minutes each way to Home Depot and back just get the right color.

Oh, technology, how could have you possibly screwed me thusly? How?!?

‘Tis a mystery indeed. One that we will investigate next time. So stay tuned, Dear Readers! Because I know that you’re just dying to know how this one ends.

I’ll give you hint, at least. Until next time, I leave you with these cryptic words: way too many Roberts get involved…

Content created on: 20/22/23 July 2023 (Thurs/Sat/Sun)

It’s a common problem for guys with large packages like me.

Not everyone is prepared to handle the length or girth–at least not adequately…

“Logistics Emergency! Logistics Emergency! For the love of God, open the door, please!”

I banged on the door of my new country neighbors, praying to any deity that would listen that they would take pity on my pathetic soul and let me borrow their big-ass pickup they use for hauling their horsies around.

I finally had those coveted shower walls within my grasp, but now, thanks to some dumb-ass at the trucking company that was supposed to be delivering them, they were about to slip right through my fingers. And then they would be gone forever…

…

Okay, Outkast, not forever ever, just until, like the next Tuesday or Wednesday. But, here’s the deal: in 3 days–on Monday, to be precise–I would be moving my mother into her new place out in the country, the so-called Farmstead, and she sure as sh*t would need to have a functioning shower awaiting her.

Moments earlier, I had been slaving toiling away on her new digs, “The Loft”, just waiting for the call from the delivery driver that all was well and he would be dropping off the new shower walls before pulling the trigger and ripping out the old shower. And the call came.

“Yo, yo, yo! Dr. Builds-A-Loft, distant cousin of Sir Mix-A-Lot, speaking! What’s poppin’, mother-trucker?” my enthusiasm for construction materials was oozing, no doubt.

“Wait, what did you call me? Whatever, it doesn’t matter. I need to know about your place…you live in a suburban development or what?” the M.T.–that’s short for mother-trucker–asked stoically.

“Suburbs? Pfft! We country livin’ out here! You don’t have to worry about bothering any neighbors with your delivery vehicle,” I was almost offended he used the S-word.

“Like, is your road paved? Lot’s of trees?”

“Nah, just a gravel road, baby. And yeah we got trees. I would even say we have a plethora of trees, Jefe. That’s a Three Amigos reference for ya, buddy!” Oh, the presumptive hubris of mine.

“Yup, lots of trees was what Google Maps was showing me. And, uh, is it a dead end?”

“Only one way in, only one way out–a private oasis all our own! Umm…why do you ask?” I was starting to become suspicious of all his dang questions.

“Yeah…so, here’s the deal: I’m pulling a 53′ trailer behind my rig. There’s no way I’m getting out of there if I take my truck down your drive.”

“Huh? What? But I selected ‘Free Delivery’ when I bought it on Lowe’s website…”

“Sorry, Bud. I’m in Town now just across from the Lowe’s. Your package is pretty big…says here it’s what…300 lbs? If you have a pickup with a decent bed, maybe you could meet me here? Or do you know one someone who has one you could borrow?”

Dammit, so much for free shipping. I could tell this was going to cost me dearly–if nothing else, I wasn’t going to get any more work done for the day, despite it being only 4 pm. I had a fancy school fundraiser to go to at 7, and My Beautiful Bride wouldn’t tolerate me monkeying around with anything related to remodeling past 5 or 5:30.

“Well…my reclusive neighbors have a big ol’ farm truck, but dangit, wouldn’t you know it, I don’t have there cell phone numbers. But you know what I do have? A house there in Town, a few blocks from where you’re at now. Could we just drop it off there for now?”

For some context, I had a new fridge that was set to be delivered that same morning, but those particular jerks¹”Jerks”–you know, short for “complete jerk-offs”. decided to call from a random number and then not leave a message, so I wasn’t able to be there when they showed up at 9 am. And now I wasn’t going to be getting that fridge for almost another week. So I knew how this delivery game is played. And I wasn’t letting this Moby ----- out of my sights.

“Hmmm..maybe. I’ll need to call my boss and get his approval. In the meantime, I suggest you try to find a pickup with a decent-sized bed…”

“Lowe’s customer service, Assistant Manager Paul speaking…”

Oh for f***’s sake. Not this asshole again. I needed somebody who was willing to bend the rules for me. I had little hope Paul would work with me.

Why was I at the mercy of this dip-sh*t? Well, first off, I’m sure you’ve deduced by now that my borderline-hoarder neighbors didn’t answer the door when I came a knockin’–though they were clearly home.

And then as I hauled tail in my tiny CRV into Town, I got on the horn with M.T., only to be informed that he had unhooked his trailer and gone by my Town house and that wasn’t an option either.

“Too narrow of roads, and way too many trees,” he informed me.

And when I rolled up to where he had left his trailer–ironically at the entrance to my neighborhood–I realized that, once again, my ability to estimate distance and size wasn’t the greatest. A 53′ trailer is not only 53′ long, but dang was it tall! Like maybe 20′? Again, I’m not the best at accurately eyeballing these things, so maybe close to 14′–but a really, really, tall 14′.

It was at that point we had concocted the plan to ask Lowe’s if we could drop it off there, and then I could come back the next day or so and pick it up.

Now, this wasn’t an outrageous request at all, especially since those butt-faces were the ones who promised free delivery to begin with. In fact…

True story: I had actually ordered two sets of shower wall panels. This was the second one. When I had ordered the first one online, it initially told me that Free Delivery was an option, but when I went to place the order, I got some bizarre message indicating that home delivery was…illegal? Yup, that’s the word that the error message used, though I’m thinking it was ‘illegal’ in the sense of a bug in the webpage’s code that wasn’t allowed.

So for the first set of walls, I was forced to select “Pick up in-store”. Then, when I decided to go ahead and update the shower in the Loft the following day–with a slightly different pattern–I was elated to see that they allowed me to select Free Delivery this time around. How convenient!

Now, back to my conversation with Paul. It wasn’t like I just called up Lowe’s and got the right person immediately, though. Instead, I got looped through to the same person 3 times and disconnected at least once before I managed to get someone with an ounce of authority on the phone. Just my luck, I get the guy with an inferiority complex.

“So you see, Paul, funny thing happened…” I said as I delved right into all the asinine details that comprised the lead up to my predicament.

When I eventually finished explaining the sitch (as the kids these days call a ‘situation’) in its full glory, Paul reacted much as expected.

“Unfortunately, we can’t help you. The delivery truck can only drop it off at the address on the package.”

“Wait, is that Lowe’s policy? Or the trucking company’s policy?” I inquired as politely as I could, given the fact that Paul was now giving me a second reason to punch him in his fat neck.

“Sorry, that’s not our policy, it’s the delivery company’s rules.”

“But that’s no problem–my driver already got cleared to drop it off wherever I told him–“

“Sorry, but we can’t help you. We can’t be responsible for some random delivery that’s not in our system.”

“You gotta be ----- kidding me, Paul. Seriously? I ordered the ----- thing from Lowe’s. Are you not this Lowe’s we speak of?”

“I can’t let you have it delivered here. Anything else I can help you with today?”

“Yeah, there is one thing…do you have any of those giant screws for concrete pillars?”

“Sure do. They’re called anchors, I think.”

“Okay, great then. Can you do me a favor, Paul? Can you go back to where you keep them, pull one out, drop your pants, and…”

The line went dead all of a sudden.

At least all y’all playing along at home know dang well what I was imploring him to do…

“Uhhh, I don’t know if my boss will be cool if I just drop off 300 pounds and $1300 worth of shower walls just on the side of the road.”

I stared the the delivery driver dead in the eyes.

“Drop it here, and drop it now…”

Oh, shenanigans. What a pickle I’ve found myself in…

The point of the story is, sadly, the burden is on the customer’s shoulders to make sure that the delivery company puts our items on the appropriately-sized truck. Seriously. Be pro-active about it. Any time you have an above-average sized item coming your way–one where you get a call from the delivery guys the day before–when you have them on the line, interrogate the living daylights out of the rep on the other end. Give them every last detail of where you expect them to deliver it, and even then don’t trust them to get it right. Keep nagging them, perhaps threatening them even.

Oh, what’s that? You sense a wee hint of bitterness in my words, do you? Great job, Captain Obvious. If you’re still wondering why I might be bit of a crank in such matters, then swing back by next week, and I’ll regale you with, as the late great Paul Harvey would say, “the rrrrrrrest of the story…”

Content created on: 6/8/9 July 2023 (Thurs/Sat/Sun)

Gather around kids, dim the lights down low.

Let me tell you all about how a trip to the local hardware store nearly came to blows…

“Welp, I about got into a fist-fight with a couple of Lowe’s employees today…”

This, unfortunately, would not be the last time I would find myself uttering such words to My Beautiful Bride upon coming home from a long day of remodeling the new place we recently bought for our parents out in the countryside.

Sure, I knew that 5 unexpectedly long months of fixing up “The Farmstead”¹A portmanteau of “The Farm” and “Homestead”, “The Farmstead” is what we’re currently calling the place out of the collective laziness that we have been unable to overcome in giving the new property a proper, cute/fun name. wouldn’t be straight-forward, but one could at least hope that the process would be as boring and peaceful as an episode of This Old House. Ah, only a naive youth could dream such dreams.

Meanwhile, here in the real world–or at least the shenanigan-filled sh*t-storm that seems to follow me around like a cloud that we around here simply refer to as ‘my life’–any random supply run to the local hardware store could turn into an episode of The Jerry Springer Show without even a moment’s notice.

“What in the world could make you wanna knock someone’s lights out?” you may be asking your phone or tablet screen right now, hoping somehow that I will hear your thoughts across the aether of the interwebs.

Well, I will tell you, Dear Reader, what could cause such chaos in my world: a six-pack–of LED wafer lights, that is…

“Here, here is your daily diverse assortment of home-improvement supplies,” the woman running the Lowe’s online pick-up desk said as she handed me a box of doo-dads and other what-nots.

I didn’t think much about it at the time, but a small part of my brain picked up on the fact that they had just thrown everything into a medium-sized random boxed, instead of the regular plastic bags. This fateful fact would come into play later.

“Thanks. But first, I don’t need a particular item, so I can just return it now?” I said, setting the box back down at the register.

“Sure, thang, Sweetheart,” my clerk said with pretty strong grandmother vibes.

After a moment of sifting through the box, she found the item and worked her magic to credit the $25 back to my card of payment.

“Okay, see you!” I said as I picked up my awkward-to-carry box of crap and headed off into the store to meet Popo,²That’s my daughters’ name for their grandfather. I normally wouldn’t go around calling another grown-ass man ‘Popo’ if not for such mitigating factors. my father-in-law and occasional remodeling accomplice. You see, I had a whole list of items I had forgot to include in my online order, and was definitely going to need him at check-out so we could get his sweet, sweeeet 10% military discount.

“You wanna put that box in the cart?” Popo said when he first saw me.

“Heck no!” I replied without missing a beat. “This is my box of precious goods! I don’t want them to think I haven’t already paid for these. I’ll keep cumbersomely carrying it around, thank you very much…”

“Hmmm…that’s odd, I don’t think I remember seeing the lighrts anywhere…better check my Mary Poppins Box…”

It was almost the end of another hard day of handy-manning it up when I realized that I needed to have the lights ready to go for when the electrician showed up the next morning. I had been so busy with plumbing and carpentry, that it had totally fallen off my radar.

Well, now the problem was that the lights I ordered were particular awesome because they were so thin–hence, the moniker ‘wafer lights’. This was great when it came to installing them just about anywhere in the ceiling, regardless of joists and whatever other items overhead that would otherwise interfere with your traditional ‘can lights’. The issue here was that since they were smaller than average, I had no idea how large or how small a 6-pack of those bad boys might be.

I carefully went through the items in The Box, and it became clear that there was no way that my lights could have ever been buried in there without me knowing. It looked like that my friendly Lowe’s clerk had accidentally forgotten to give me that one tiny item.

“No prob, Bob!” I thought to myself as I headed home with intentions to pop in at Lowe’s along the way, “I’m sure they have my lost package loafing about the front desk somewhere, and they will easily take care of a repeat customer such as myself!”

Famous last words if I ever heard them…

“No. No, I don’t understand. I paid for an item, and I never got it. Of course I want my ----- item!”

Usually proud of my ability to keep my cool with strangers, I was getting even more aggravated by how aggravating Lowe’s customer disservice was being in this moment.

I mean, I swear, the nerve of the clerk–a different one than from earlier–she actually had the gall to say to my face “We have no way to prove that you don’t actually have it. So there’s nothing we could do about it. I’m sure you understand.”

She had already checked the section where they keep online orders until they’re picked up, and to my surprise she had found no trace of it back there. But now she was saying there was nothing she could do since–and I repeat, this completely true–“I could just be claiming I didn’t get it when I really did.”

They had messed up, and instead of trying to make it right, they decide to go with an argument that is virtually impossible for me to disprove.

So I explained to her again that I had only received the one box from them, and clearly remember walking around with the singular box and that there was no way I could have actually had the LED lights and perhaps set them down somewhere in the store without realizing it. They. Were. Simply. Never. In. My. Possession.

In response, she busted out the checklist from order, that had been manually ticked off as the ‘puller’ (as they call them) pulled each item off the store floor/shelf and into the cart.

“See, it’s checked off right here. So that shows that you got the lights.”

“What?!? That doesn’t prove y’all actually handed them over to me.”

“Yes, you signed off on it, so…”

“I DIDN’T SIGN ANYWHERE. Jeez.” At this point I had never been so publicly agitated (at least since The Miracle Whip Incident). “You know dang well that not a single one of your customers goes through their order item-by-item before leaving. It’s a little thing called ‘I trust that your didn’t ----- up my order’. You’re welcome.”

“I’m not sure what you want me to do,” she said, a bit too smugly.

That was a pretty stupid question. But you know what was a much more valid question? This (with all apologies to my dear mother):

Instead of posing this question aloud, I sighed heavily and asked a much more polite question:

“Can I talk to your manager?”

“Okay, whatever. I don’t think he’s going to tell you anything different though…”

I was inching closer to answering the Wayne Brady Question, I tell you what.

“Just get him or her, please.”

“Sure.” She leaned back and hollered into a little room off to the side. “PAUL! Paaaaaul! This customer wants to talk to you.”

Paul? I don’t think I had interacted with him yet, which is a bit of a statistical surprise, given how many times I had frequented this particular Lowe’s. I had no doubt though that he would be able to take care of me, just like managers and assistant managers had in the past, no matter how convoluted of a problem I presented them.

“I’m the assistant manager here and, uh, yeah, we don’t have any way to help you, since as far as we can tell, you have the item.”

You have got to be ----- kidding me.

“Seriously? I don’t get an item I paid for, and I’m supposed just take this act of retail sodomy with a smile?”

“Well, let’s see here…what item was it again?” he asked as peered of the aforementioned checklist.

“It was the 6-pack of LED lights.”

“Hmmm…oh, wow, that’s a $150 item. There’s no way I can give you a new one. Surely you understand.”

I clenched my fist as tightly as I could, reminding myself that my daughters’ didn’t need the trauma of visiting their father in prison.

“NO. Surely you understand that I want my ----- item all the more since I paid $150 for it. How hard can this be? Do they not train you numb-skulls for situations like this? Surely this isn’t the first time this has happened.”

It was at that point that Paul and the clerk commenced a Mexican standoff with me for a good 3 minutes, where we just stared at each other blankly while a line began to form behind me. (After all, I had been dealing with their bullcrap for a good 10-15 minutes at this point.)

“FINE.” Paul finally said rolling his eyes. “Just go get him a new one,” he instructed the clerk.

“What? Really? I’m supposed to just give it to him after all that?”

“I guess the customer is always right,” Paul said, rolling his eyes even hard this time.

But of course, the way he said it…well, let’s just say he really knew how to put the ‘ass’ in ‘assistant manager’. Even in conceding the battle to me, he was still just askin’ for a whoopin’.

“Actually…” a third employee appeared out of nowhere and chimed in. “You can’t just pull an item out of stock. You’ll have to refund him, and he’ll have to go back and get it himself and purchase it again.”

“Jeez, you guys really are a bunch of a-holes, aren’t you? You’re going to make me do all the foot work after all that, eh?” I was shaking my dang head in disbelief over how absurd this all was. “But it all works out the same in the end, right? I’m getting what I paid for?”

“Yes, indeed,” confirmed the Know-It-All employee.

“Fine, whatevs,” I said as I headed off to the lighting section.

When I had finally hauled the big honkin’ box of lights back to the register, a completely new clerk greeted me.

“Oh, fudge…how am I going to get the military discount without my father-in-law? That’s $15 that I’m not going to let go without a stink, especially after being put on trial by your colleagues.”

“No problem! Do you know his phone number? That’s all I need and I’ll get you taken care of lickety-split…”

And just like that, she disproved the theory that only ass-hats were working the evening shift at Lowe’s that day.

She was actually…helpful? *Gasp* Friendly? *Whaaaat?!?* Solved the customer’s problem with a smile? *No way, Jose!*

Whew! Praise the Jesus. There would be no fist-fights in Lowe’s that day. At least none that would involve me…

The point of the story is “Jesus is always the answer.” Or sometimes violence. Jesus and/or violence. Both answers are generally acceptable.

…

…

…

*stifles laugh*

Just kidding. We all know that it’s the threat of Jesus and/or violence that usually gets the job done. After all, you read the last post before I went on vacation, right?

Right…

Content created on: 30 June / 1 July 2023 (Fri/Sat)

Man, if you’re going to jump ship and abandon me when I need you the most?

At least let me down gently…

“Well, we better be done by next Friday…that’s my last day on the job.”

“Wait, what? Like, last day on this project?”

“Oh, no, last day with this company. I’m moving on to bigger and better things in a few short days!”

Shit. This is not the conversation you want be having with the project manager of your slightly-more-complicated-than-usual home “restoration & remodeling”.

Yet here I was, almost 4 weeks into a home reno adventure with Daniel–our project manager–and this mother ----- couldn’t have bothered to mention this earlier? That party foul alone renders his right to anonymity null and void. I’m using your REAL name buddy here on out–no alias for you!

“Uh, congratulations?”

That was just about as a cordial of a response to this news that I could muster. I mean, good on him and all, but I know how this story ends. The Boss Lady reminded me of that fact the instant I told her, “Welp, Daniel’s last day is Friday…”

The Boss Lady and I? We like to be non-traditional. And not just with our home renovations. Nay, this trend started from our very first shared occasion of note: our wedding.

Despite being reliable members of our local church, we changed things up a bit and opted to have our matrimonial ceremony and reception in the butterfly garden of our local life science museum. But because of this unique setting, we needed a wedding coordinator who knew the place inside and out, so who better to ask than the director of said garden of butterflies?

We were quite ecstatic when she agreed. I couldn’t even help myself from shouting from the rooftops “She said ‘YES’!!!!!”

Okay, so I wasn’t that jubilant. But having her at the helm killed quite a few birds with one stone, so we were happy to have her on board.

Fast-forward 2 months to our wedding day. Guess what she casually mentions when she met up with the Boss Lady that morning? That’s right: “Oh, by the way, today’s my last day on the job. You’re wedding will be my last official act as the butterfly garden director before I head on down to Wilmington. How exciting is that?”

Cool, cool…

Later that evening, our festivities were going relatively smoothly. We somehow managed to awkwardly place 100ish guests along the path that wound through the garden.–and most of them even had a view of the happy couple!

We got to the part where the Boss Lady and I exchanged rings, wiped the sweat off each other’s brows (it was sooo ----- hot and humid in there), and shared our first kiss. You know, the usual. And then…it was time to escort the guests out of the stifling December heat and to the reception.

But did we get the orderly and peaceful transition that we had paid for? Hecks no.

Instead, complete disarray and chaos ensued. As the late(?) great Jeff Foxworthy would say, “It was pandelerium!”

Apparently our “wedding coordinator” decided to peace the ----- out early, because, hey, it was her last day. She had already gotten her $50 Target thank-you gift card–no reason for her stick around to see the job through, right?

Thanks for leaving us hanging like butterfly pupa, Tiffany. Dammit. I really wish I could remember your real name right now…you deserve all the public shaming I can conjure up!

Anyways, I found it all just a bit too ironic, considering that “commitment” was the whole ----- theme of the night and all…

Needless to say, we’re a bit leery of any ass-hat that is supposed to be working on something for us while they’re on the way out the door. So, yeah, Daniel was making us a bit nervous.

But, the good news is that history doesn’t always repeat itself.

The bad news? It usually does.

I should have known something was up when he would continually evade my simple question, “So when are going to have the mantel installed?”

He would reply with something vague like, “Yeah I looked at it.” Yeah, that tells me NOTHING.

Lo and behold, the Wednesday of his last week, he pops in at our house unexpectedly to do a quick final walk-through. And of course, I ask him about the mantel again. The mantel–the $300 piece of wood sitting in front of our fireplace, covered in paint cans, instead of being sanded, stained, finished, and suspended safely 5 feet off the ground.

“Oh, that…yeah we couldn’t figure out how to install it without possibly destroying the whole fireplace, and no one wanted to be liable for that. We’ll credit you back what we were going to charge you for the install.”

You. ‘Ve. Got. To. Be. ----- Kidding. Me.

I paid this ----- to literally “Leave the mantel hanging”, and instead he just decided to figuratively leave us hanging. A bit on the nose, don’t you think, Universe?

The point of the story is…well you get it, right? Never be anybody’s “last job”. They’re bound to screw you over one way or another.

Just don’t expect them to screw your mantel into your ----- fireplace like you hired them to do in the first place, though…yeah. maybe I’m bitter just a wee bit…

Special thanks to the Woolly Mammoth for heroically posing for the mantel picture…and going above and beyond getting me out of the home reno fiascos I managed to get myself into over the last 5 weeks.

Content created on: 7 May 2021 (Friday)

What do you say to the unapproving insurance rep who doesn’t want to pay for your sea-side condo because it’s too fancy?

“Beach, please…”

So lately you may have been wondering why my pointless parables have been slightly more sporadic. Well, long story short, I’ve started a new career as an interior designer. Sort of.

About 4 months ago our house sprung a couple leaks, and it all appropriately started when my mom, who was in our kitchen at the times sent me this pic, accompanied by a pithy, yet ominous, message:

“Serious problem, lots of water. Xo”

*Sigh*

Welp, Mom-stradamus has turned out to be a modern-day oracle indeed. Not only did we have an obvious kitchen sink leak, but the insurance adjuster uncovered a much-longer problem with our master shower.

And yada, yada, ya, here we are, living 3 hours away at the beach for 4 weeks while are house is put back together with a few, er, “modifications.” Perhaps down the road I’ll document for you the domestic debacles that I’ve managed to get into by micro-managing the project manager of our repair/remodel project–as foreshadowed by my reference to becoming an interior designer–but that will have to wait for now.

Right now, if I may, I would like to #HumbleBrag about how I got my family a month-long beach-side stay courtesy of Amica Insurance…

As it turns out, insurance will pay for you to stay elsewhere while your house is being repaired as part of a home-owner’s claim. So early on, we got the bright idea to just jam out to a mountain cabin or a beach house instead of staying within 30 minutes of our hometown. Since we all either work from home or attend school virtually, there was no logistical reason why we couldn’t.

Now while our insurance agent had been doing a superb job of taking care of us, she was surprisingly cagey about the process of finding a place to stay during the repairs. When I originally floated the idea of staying in the mountains, long long ago when we thought it would be for maybe a week, she was hesitant, suggesting that I send her a link of any place we were thinking of staying so she could ask her boss for approval. Apparently, she’s dealt with people who had the same basic idea as we did, except these assholes went all out and booked a high-end ski resort and tried to get the insurance to cover it.

Fair enough, I thought…

Fast-forward to about 2-1/2 weeks before the contractors were going to start ripping our house apart. It was only at that point that we found out the exact dates we would need…and the first time we faced the reality of living in a strange and foreign land for 4 whole weeks.

I called “Emily”¹Yes, that is her real name. What the ----- does it matter at this point? and had a Groundhog Day experience where we repeated the exact same conversation as before, and I walked away with even less of an idea of what a reasonable price for alternate accommodations looked like.

It being barely two weeks out, I immediately started scouring VRBO, AirBnB and other various mountain rental websites, only to come up with 4 or 5 decent options that were available for that entire time frame–and this didn’t even begin to address the “Anne” and “Frank”²Aka Checkers & Chess. situation. Again, details about the complications arising from being new pet parents are beyond the scope of this tail,³Do have to point out the pun here? and will have to wait their turn to be revealed.

The price tag for 4 weeks at these places came in between $4500-$6000, which all in all, was actually fairly reasonable. A brief cursory look at vacation rentals near us showed that was about what we would expect to pay if we stayed local, so I was pretty confident there would be no issue with our little plan.

Now, I hadn’t had the chance to run these options by the Boss Lady, but since time was of the essence, I fired off the links to these rental to ol’ Emily on this particular Friday afternoon. I wanted to get this ball rolling and a bangin’ cabin booked, ya know?

Over that weekend, the Boss Lady and I finally had a chance to discuss things, and it turned out that she really wanted to hit up the beach instead. Just great. All my hard mountain rental research had just gone down the drain. I told her if she found some suitable places, I would consider them at least.

Sunday afternoon she found quite a few options…except they were closer to $8k-$10k, rather than the $4k-$6k that I had already presented to Emily. I had to talk the Boss Lady down from some of the more expensive options, and we finally agreed that the luxurious “Eden Cove 9”–aka EC9–should be acceptable to all parties, given that I could save $500 by booking directly with Better Beach Rentals instead of through VRBO. Just over $6k, so no one should be complaining, right?

But before we continue, I need you to check out the listing for this place on VRBO here. Any description that begins with “absolutely the most luxurious town homes on Oak Island!” is going to be mother ----- winner, amiright?

Anyways, Sunday night I shot the manager at BBR a few important questions that I needed answered before attempting to get Amica’s approval–most importantly, “I see this property is pet-friendly. Are there any additional pet fees?” This was very coyly worded, in hopes of them revealing whether or not “pets” meant “cats, not just dogs” without me revealing that we very much so indeed need to bring our to feline family members with us.

Well, come Monday evening, and I haven’t heard a dang peep from either Emily or the BBR manager. At this point, I’m getting pretty antsy, because I know that all it takes to make any of our options suddenly unavailable is for some dingus to rent the place out for Easter weekend or some other asininely small number of days. So I decided to make an executive call: I just went ahead and reserved ol’ EC9–a non-refundable move, though, mind you.

I sent Emily the bill and explained to her that I pulled the trigger because time was running out, but, hey, I saved them $500 by booking direct, so all should be well, right?

Wrong.

Mid Tuesday morning, I hear back from Emily for the first time since Friday. Apparently, she hadn’t bothered to tell me that she had sent the mountain rentals I had shared with her on to her supervisor for approval, and she was “having some issues justifying the pricing” with him. Allegedly, they “were able to find some very reasonably priced rentals in [our] area.” Further, she made an argument that EC9 was too fancy, and that alone should disqualify it: “location can have a huge impact on pricing and obviously a rental by the beach with a pool is going to be more costly than a home in your area.”

Ah, snap. They were gonna give me flack for a $4500 rental? Had I totally missed out on local options in the “very reasonable” price range? What is that anyways? $2k? Either way, what was done was done, but I faced the very real possibility of being on the hook for $4k of our rental…ugh!

So I humbly set out to see where I had gone wrong and did a thorough search of the AirBnB and VRBO options near our home, as if we had decided to stay local instead. How did that turn out, you ask? Let’s just say the facts were not in Emily’s favor, and she got the full Point of the Story treatment, starting with a histogram of the options, excluding the one outlier that would have actually been cheaper than EC9:

What you can’t see in the picture is the cheapest option, a suspiciously cheap but otherwise decent-looking place in Durham (uh…no thanks!). While its nominal price was $2900 the additional taxes and fees would bumped that up to $3792. Tack on the $700 it would have cost to board our two cats elsewhere, and suddenly this “very reasonably priced” rental comes out to about $4,500. Yes, that’s right, the same amount they were “having a hard time justifying” us spending on a mountain cabin rental.

Lies! All lies, I say!

The best part about this is, see at the bottom of the picture “Executive Rental, Apex NC”? This was our second cheapest option. Its nominal price was $5,844, so appeared slightly cheaper than EC9, right? But by the time you actually checked out ($7,821) and added on the cat boarding ($700), those A-holes at Amica would have been looking at a bill around $8,500. Would they have us rack up a bill that is $2,400 more just based on the principle that we should stay local?!?

But here’s the real problem: check out the Executive Rental’s listing here. If you’re in a hurry, here’s a quick peek at the master bedroom, replete with a completely unnecessary sofa for some reason:

You basically have to call long-distance to talk to somebody on the other side of the frickin’ room, for frick’s sake! Apart from not having a pool, this place was waaaaay fancier than EC9–and our current house. I bring up our house, because they make a big deal of trying to match the luxuries and amenities of your house, but really don’t want to go beyond that if they can help it. This all lead to this little juicy nugget and I included in my fact-based and fact-filled response to Emily:

“[referencing the Executive Rental] Now, most of the other options in this price range aren’t quite as fancy. But that brings up a very confusing question for someone who is dealing with enough of a stressful situation already: would you force us to stay in less nice accommodations, even if they were more expensive?”

It was a serious question for these ----- fat-cat bureaucrats. I was certain they were going to make us stay in $9k local shit-hole, just to make sure that we weren’t one iota more comfortable than we would be in our regular home. Insane, I say!

Well, long story even longer, I fired off my courtesy reply to Emily, including thorough documentation of my research, and was left holding my breath hoping that cold, hard facts and basic common sense would prevail. Because of course she couldn’t have been bothered to shoot me a quick reply acknowledging the information I had just shared with her or anything like that.

I was a nervous wreck for a good day and a half before getting a text notification out of the blue, informing me that Amica had issued me a payment. I rushed to my computer and checked lickety-split, and confirmed that it was indeed for the full $6,123.86!

I had won! I had really won the battle with the insurance company! Oh, happy happy us, we’re going to the beach; oh, happy happy us, we’re going after all!

Okay, so that didn’t rhyme. So sue me. It was a huge ----- relief–especially because I had actually managed to bear that burden all by myself, and hadn’t mentioned a word of the situation to anyone.

And that gets us to the point of the story: in retrospect, I realized that they would have probably never approved our little beach trip had a obediently waited for Amica’s approval before booking it. Indeed, this a living example of the old adage “It’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission.” Though, now that I say that out loud, I think it’s supposed to read “easier” than “better,” right? Oh well, you get the point.

Now, why would I cryptically hint that “some sins are never forgiven”? Well, I’ll get around to it, but I promise to share the, uh, “experience” that EC9 would have in store for us. Stay tuned…

P.S. Yeah, sorry I didn’t ask your permission to assault you with such a long meandering tale…I beg your forgiveness, Dear Madam or Sir…

Content created on: 1 April & 1-2 May 2021 (Thurs/Sat/Sun)