If only I had the luck of the Irish with the sale of my home.
Now, where was I? Oh, yes! Sears…
The appliance department is up the escalator and to the left, all the way in the back. This gives the Woodsman and I enough time to discuss monies. How much is too much? What if they have nothing that suits us? What if it’s not in stock? Should we go out for a beer after this to drown our sorrows?
We arrived in the appliance department with our questions still lingering and our hopes high. Surely there would be a few options to choose from. There were 2. One was hideous, the other was equally wretched. I looked at the salesman. It was time to wheel and deal.
Sears Guy: Can I help you?
Me: I need a stove.
Sears Guy: Well, that narrows it down, when did you need it by?
Me: Now, yesterday….are these the only ones you have on sale? Or can we work out a deal?
Sears Guy: I think some of these models are missing their sale prices, let me check.
At this point, I’m enjoying the old man from somewhere north of NYC. He’s crotchety, he has a dry and sarcastic sense of humor, his voice is rather monotone, he’s everything I love in a salesman. He also knew that we were in the store 15 minutes prior to opening and joked about our “trespassing” as I reopened my Sears account to pay for the stove. Not only did the Sears Guy find us a rockin’ deal on a rather nice range, he applied a credit to our account as a bonus. We saved oodles and were able to take it home immediately. This is where you may want to consider sending me flowers…or wine. I prefer wine.
What the What?!
We stopped at our local grocers to purchase the mandatory installation kit (which consisted of a 12 pack of beer and a bottle of Rooster), and headed home to install my new oven. The Woodsman wheeled the old stove into the garage so Little Man could strip it clean of wires and components (because that’s what future electrical engineering geniuses do with their spare time), and wheeled the new one into my fancy kitchen. We removed the packing materials, hooked up the power cord and plugged our shiny, new stove into the socket. No dice. No lights. No bread. No dinner. But there was plenty of cussing that came out of my mouth that would make an iron worker blush. I’m not proud.
Murphy is a mean, mean, man….
At this point in time, the Woodsman is baffled, I’m throwing another 4 year old style tantrum, and the situation is grim. As it turned out, the ground wire (which, incidentally, resides precariously close to the cable service box) had fallen off of its triplex (don’t ask, these are words only the people who understand continuity and voltage would utter. I speak in terms of chocolates and other sweet treats). A bit of twisting, a few flips of the breaker, and sure enough…the stove lights turned on. This is where tears began to well up in my eyes. Are you following me here? I was witnessing the very essence of Murphy’s Law.
It was definitely time for a ::headdesk::
Not only was this just an electrical issue that was caused by the bungling Cable Guy, but we were now the proud owners of a shiny new stove that worked like a dream, and a not so new, but rather shiny, stove that also worked…that my son was about to strip of all it’s components. You can imagine the horror that ran through me knowing that if he succeeded, all hopes of recouping a bit of the monies (that we just spent needlessly) would be smashed.
You may now send those chocolates, or buy me that drink.
In the end, we kept the new stove, sold the old one 2 days after buying the new one, crushed a future electrical engineering genius’ heart, and made tacos for dinner. Yes, all that for a 4 minute warm up at 375F for 12 organic yellow corn taco shells. Now, if you will excuse me, I do believe I need to tidy up the place, strategically place some pops of color throughout, and bake some chocolate chip cookies. I smell Murphy at the door. Cheers!