Friday, 13 October 2017

Me vs The Most NSFW Post I've Ever Written (Sorry Mom)(Upon Review, Not That Sorry)

I think it's time I changed professions. I'm going to become a driller. Specifically, a well driller. 

Why, you ask? Because it's been my recent experience that drilling wells for those people unfortunate enough to need water is lucrative as fuck.

Again, you ask why? Allow me explain. 

First you go to a property, wave your shitty magic sticks around and determine there's water underneath this wildly unremarkable spot, inconveniently located in the middle of their yard. 

How do you do that? Goddamn witchcraft? Coin flip? Charlatan's version of water divination gypsy voodoo?  Or maybe you just got lazy and needed a smoke, and this seemed like as good a spot as any to stop and take that one step closer to emphysema. Who fucking cares. No one can call your bluff. 

Fuck yeah, you're a driller now bitch!

But anyway, you tell these poor, waterless people that there's water here. Trust me, I'm a professional. No, you can't see the water, but it's there. Under the ground. My sticks said so and you can't prove otherwise until it's too late (Pro Tip: say that last part in your head).

Now, you show up with your drill rig and spend a day or two decimating the landscape (and no, don't clean up after yourself. By all means leave your lunch shit and weird hoodies laying around, it adds to the ambiance). 

Go down a few hundred feet then tell your unsuspecting and parched clients that it's not quite deep enough yet. Go another 200 feet. Spew tailings all the fuck over their driveway. Leave it there to harden and become akin to concrete because you can.

Finally, take their money and walk the fuck away. That's right! Your "well" doesn't need to actually produce usable water. NO! That's just silly. 

Water, just like the bullshit sticks said there
would be. Now give me some money.
Then to really shit on their day, have it pour out some mud just to allow them a moment to believe it's working before realizing how categorically fucked they are. Then make sure to tell them that you can't guarantee your work (this is key). But still make sure to take their money. A lot of their money. Like a university degree's worth of their money. Or roughly a year's salary (put in perspective, this means that the waterless individual could have not worked for an entire year, and spent their days carting water up to the house from a river instead, which would have led to no greater net loss, and actually having some water).  

Because, hey, it's not like you had ONE JOB or anything.  

So, to summarize, as far as my current experience goes, all you need to do to make a shit ton of money off of someone is to tell them you're a "driller" and you will drill them a "well" and then don't do that, but still take all of their money.


Friday, 22 September 2017

Me vs Voluntarily Living Without Amenitites

Every summer, for most of my childhood, our family would go camping for two weeks in the Okanagan. As an adult, taking my family camping, I've come to realize that these were some of the most spectacularly organized camps of my life; really, of anyone's life. My mother is the most tidy, coordinated, and organized camper of all time.

Now I can also run a camping trip; I've been doing it my whole life. I've slept on the ground under a shitty tarp at a Guiding camp while bugs crawled across my not-sleeping face (don't do this, it's terrible, and I got zero actual sleep), to tenting in thunderstorms with racoons running black ops missions to gain access to your sleeping quarters (also terrible, also no sleep).  I've been trailer camping (Please don't mistake this with a large modern trailer; mine is very tiny and old, and a lot of things in it don't work), and I've been camping in the rain more times than I care to count. 

The current tiny trailer
I've gone on school camping trips with my very own cast of mean girls, one of whom forgot her sleeping bag. She thought I should share mine. I did not. She also didn't think that eating ketchup chips in the tent in a known and very active bear area was a problem. It turned out not to have been a problem that one night, but the risk alone! I kind of wished one had eaten her. She would have been so much better for it.

But at no time in my life would anyone ever accuse me of being half as organized a camper as my mom. It causes me an absurd amount of stress getting packed up; it takes me days to do, and I never forget less than 4 items. Two of which are generally critical (see below). 

And I've certainly never pulled off a two week trip to anywhere. The most I've managed is 10 days, and by the end we had devolved into eating out at least one meal a day because I couldn't get it together for long enough to coherently plan 3 complete meals. It almost resulted in a reenactment of Lord of the Flies.

And if only food disorganization was my greatest fail....

Two years ago we went camping with some people from work.  I'm confident this trip led to some concerns about my mental faculties, which were already up for debate based on an earlier instance where we'd shown up to a campfire party without shoes for our toddler.  (and while this has led to ongoing hassling, it did serve to keep an otherwise busy toddler confined to a chair so I always knew where he was...maybe less of a problem than originally thought, hmmmm)

I also have mad skills when it
comes to adding thumbs to pictures  
We pulled up with our tent trailer and parked beside their Taj Mahal-ish trailers (some size envy on my part), and reached for the crank to creakily, shakily raise the beast. Guess what we didn't have. Yeah. That.  So with otherwise no way to raise the trailer, Husband unhooked it, turned around, and drove back home to get the missing link.  

A few hours, and some harassment about our pathetic camping skills later, the trailer went up. In an effort to redeem myself with a gourmet meal (see here as an indication of my cooking skillz), I went inside to fill up a pot of water to get dinner going. It was at roughly this point I discovered that the antifreeze we put in to discourage the pipes from bursting, was now discouraging us from using the water.  I swear we cleaned that tank out multiple times before heading out, and yet the water was completely unusable. 

(Pro tip: even if you don't use the hot water in the trailer, the son of a bitch hot water tank will still fuck with your water supply and contaminate your regular tank. The more you know 🌠 )

In normal circumstances, no water would be fine. I've only had a trailer for a few years, and part of camping for me has always been lugging water jugs down to the faucet to fill up.  This, along with washing dishes, is why parents bring kids camping, right?  It's just part of their job description. Well, because we were in a forestry camp, there was no running water. We had to rely on the kindness of those around us for our water needs for the rest of the trip. I felt like Oliver Twist: Please sir, may I have some more?

This did very little to improve my standing as a competent camper.  Although at least this time I remembered shoes. 

So, before I ramble into the realm of TL;DR, I'll wrap this up saying that while I've done a lot of camping, my technique leaves a bit to be desired. I can promise that I will be sticking to the shorter camping trips until I've developed the necessary skill level required to attempt anything longer.  And so help me, I'll make sure to pack some
damn shoes. 

Wednesday, 16 August 2017

Me vs The Dark Rabbit Hole of YouTube

For years I avoided letting my kids watch traditional tv commercials for toys. It was wonderful, and significantly cut down on the levels of "IwantitIwantitIwantit" ringing out through my house every time a commercial break occurred. Praise Netflix.

But then, one day, my oldest discovered toy demonstration videos on YouTube.

If you haven't experienced these (and it is an experience), please allow me a moment to explain the joy. The whole show is basically a diabetes inducing, off camera voice of an adult who is all too excited to open and play with shitty kid toys on camera.



So basically, some genius asshole has figured out that by opening toys and playing with them on camera, complete with irritating high pitched voices, you can get MILLIONS OF HITS on YouTube. There are entire channels devoted to this perfect example of humanity failing. It boggles the mind, and yet on some level, I wish I'd figured it out first and capitalized the shit out of that.

And so both my children will watch these visual atrocities for as long as you let them. My mornings are filled with shrill idiots extolling the virtues of the latest plastic toy that will eventually jam my vacuum cleaner, which is broken only by my children plaintively asking to go to Toys R Us while the next video loads.


Help me.

Thursday, 29 June 2017

Me vs Culinary Excellence

I've never been an amazing cook. I'm not the worst, but I'm also not likely to be offered a spot on Hell's Kitchen. Generally speaking though, I don't like being yelled at, so I don't feel any particular sting of rejection on this point.  

My food is basically fine.  It's consistently edible, and I don't believe I've caused any cases of food poisoning, but it's not gourmet by anyone's standards. That said, if it was gourmet, my kids would have starved by now, as they subsist entirely on a diet of peanut butter, ketchup, kraft dinner, and soy sauce (or as they call it: soil sauce).

And it's not that I'm completely incapable of food preparation; I just don't enjoy doing it.  When my husband used to live overseas, he and his family had a full time cook. This sounds magical to me. Rainbows and unicorns dancing on my dinner plate. It also makes the fact that he occasionally also had cobras in the kitchen almost reasonable, because fuck it, I'd never be in there. I suppose I'd need a cook that moonlighted as a snake charmer. 

What bothers me most about cooking is that you can't just make one amazing meal, drop the mike, and exit stage left to thunderous applause. You have to cook every. single. day, and there are very few things in this world that I want to do that frequently. Cooking is certainly not one of them. 

My current distaste (<-- good pun) for cooking began at a young age.  I was in home ec in grade 7 with a close friend. We made some great food. Muffins, apple sauce, and specifically pizza dough from scratch. It was amazing. I was so thrilled with how good it was that I though I would make this shit at home, because I was the best pizza dough maker ever!

As you can imagine, when I tried to recreate this masterpiece at home for my hungry family that had no alternative food source prepared, it turned out to be the culinary equivalent of a dumpster fire.  It was so inedible, that the best we could do was make some half hearted attempt to rescue what few toppings hadn't been enveloped into the doughy slime. There wasn't much to salvage. I knew hunger and shame that night. 

This properly explains my relationship
with both noodles and snakes
It was at roughly this point that I made the uncomfortable realization that I was not the reason I was passing home economics. Had I been left to my own devices, I would probably have failed. My friend was a good cook. I was not. 

And to drive the point home just a little harder, I also lit a bowl of Mr. Noodles on fire in the microwave that year. In the home ec classroom. In front of my teacher. Like a boss.
That day I also knew shame. And hunger. 

Monday, 12 June 2017

Me vs An Unconventional Hair Treatment

Here's a bit of advice I feel like I should pass on; consider it a PSA of sorts:

No matter how much you don't feel washing your hair tonight, do not substitute a real shampooing with dry shampoo. It's not the same.

More importantly, if you ignore this warning, leaving apathy and human inertia to dictate your level of personal hygiene, please at least use a quality dry shampoo. Do not, for example, substitute with a dry shampoo designed for dogs because that is all you currently have on hand.

While dry shampoo for dogs does a passable job of making sure my wet dog smells a little less like a vile combination of damp moss and old deer carcass, it made my hair smell like a wet dog. And to add insult to injury, it had the audacity to do nothing to improve the overall look of my hair or act as a stop-gap between actual washings.

This was not the easy fix that hair commercials everywhere promised me (slow-mo hair flick)....that said, maybe I'd have done better watching dog groomers commercials instead?

Wednesday, 19 April 2017

Me vs The Guy Who Didn't Like My Hair

Today I had one of the strangest client encounters I've ever had while at work. It went like this....

A man walked in to the office. Let's call him Dick. It's appropriate.

Me: Hi, can I help you?
Dick: Yes, you can comb your hair.

What I should have said: Why don't you go comb your face?

What I actually said after recovering from my wide eyed, quizzical-dog head tilt:  *extremely awkward laugh* But can I help you with anything? *stumbles blindly through rest of encounter, but otherwise survives until he finally fucking leaves*

I'm absolute shit at confrontation, and I just didn't see that one coming. He was completely deadpan and I still have literally no idea if he was trying to be clever (I really don't have a good example of how this could be construed as clever...) or if he was just a complete waste of breathable air.

It's important to note here that my hair was in a bun, and that he had the follicular equivalent of a dead cat on his head.  I get that not everyone loves the wild colours I've grown so fond of, but seriously, I do try to maintain a pretty high level of overall hair maintenance. And in any case, he didn't seem concerned with the colour....but instead with how much I brushed it? Which he could tell from the tidy professional bun I was sporting?  I'm still so confused.

You sir, are an asshole.

Sunday, 16 April 2017

Me vs The Gnomian Wars

Who rides a frog? Santa. 
Santa rides a frog now.
Because I love my mom, and because I know she hates garden gnomes immensely, back in January I decided that the perfect birthday gift for her would be a tacky, beady eyed, garden nightmare. With a few clicks and some savvy internet-ing, I had a lovely, portly little gnome sent to her doorstep, along with a book entitled something along the lines of When Gnomes Attack. Literally the perfect gift.

Unfortunately, the hateful little gnome was only about 3 inches tall, and not nearly as offensive as I had originally hoped, but she was deeply unimpressed, so I feel like I achieved my goal.

Like any good daughter, on my next visit I made sure my thoughtful gift was prominently displayed. When it mysteriously vanished I even took the time to find it and carefully replace it in the centre of the living room.  I took great joy in the fact that she had to keep it, as it was a gift from her loving daughter. Perfection.

Until I got home.

Don't be fooled, these guys 
hear, see, and speak evil

I opened my suitcase and there packed with our belongings was the shitty little gnome. My despicable mother had snuck it into my daughter's suitcase before we left, and I'm pretty sure my 3 year old helped. He thinks it's a sculpture of Santa riding a frog. This was a declaration of war.

On my return trip, the gnome was replaced in it's rightful spot, but again it found it's way back to me with terrifying speed. The little frog riding shit became a fixture on my nightstand, mocking me, daring me to make the next move. And so I did.

It was time for an infestation.

This guy has a light!
So leading up to our next visit, I spent an inordinate amount of time amassing an army of garden ready killers. The gnomian arms race was on. No gnome was too ugly, no pose too unflattering, and the bigger the better. The pièce de resistance: a trifecta of bobble headed gnomes acting out the hear no evil/see no evil/speak no evil scenario; my mother wouldn't know what hit her.

And she didn't. We have now made it all the way home, and she's only just realizing the plague that has taken her household. She hasn't yet discovered the depths to which she's caused me to sink. 

Best of luck finding this guy...

Mom, as you're reading this, know that while the kids have had their Easter egg hunt, your very own hunt is just beginning. These little guys have taken up residence throughout your house; may the odds be ever in your favour.

And by that I mean there are a ludicrous number of gnomes in your house. Let the games begin!

***I think it's also important to note that none of the pictures shown here provide any clues as to the vastness of my army. Just know their numbers are significant, and you will never know if they've all been found.

Tuesday, 7 March 2017

Me vs The Lost Art of People Gathering

Until we moved 3 years ago, it had been approximately a thousand years since I'd had to actively make new friends. I'd lived in the same town my entire life, nobody ever moved away, and even after high school, I still saw the same people around town on a regular basis.  Many of the people I still consider close friends were those I'd known in high school, rock climbed with years ago, or met early in university during a criminal psychology course, when together we realized the majority of the people in our tutorial possessed very few critical thinking skills.

I even recently reconnected with an elementary school friend after years of lost contact. It was amazing to chat and reminisce about a part of my life when none of my current friends knew me.  She knew the younger me. She remembered making up dance routines to Meatloaf in the basement and that time I passed out when I got my ears pierced for the first time. I don't know of anyone else who can make that claim. This is probably not a bad thing. Also, thank fuck we didn't all have camera phones at the time.

The one really nice thing about having an existing batch of close friends, is that you don't need to go actively hunting for new ones. I use the term "hunting" on purpose, because that's what social media allows for now.  Following an initial meet and greet, let's be honest, we all mount some kind of getting-to-know-you expedition though the muddy pot holes and river bends of their Facebook pages, all while wearing our pith helmets and twirling over-long moustaches.....Dr. Livingstone, I presume?

It's like early dating, but without the should-we-kiss-at-the-end-of-the-night issue, but which still allows for the awkward social difficulties of trying to decide if they like you (please like me!), and wondering if it's too early to ask them to come over to your place to hang out? 

And so I became complacent about making new friends as an adult.  Dramatic, yet completely unsuprising foreshadowing: skills that go unused are not kept, and only re-learned with a shit ton of effort.

Unfortunately, moving hours away from your established support network of long-time friends does make the getting together a touch difficult. This is not to say that I have lost touch with them, but I realized that moving meant meeting new people.  This was something that I had essentially not done for 15+ years, and the idea of going out into the unknown and making new friends was about as appealing as a actually going on a malaria-infested expedition through the jungle with a cadre of Englishmen. I couldn't imagine getting to know anyone as well as those I had moved away from; it didn't even seem possible. My initial plan was simply to get a lot of cats.

When I realized that obtaining a sufficient number of cats was out of the question, I more or less threw myself at people and all but bluntly asked if they wanted to be my friend. It was awkward and I could frequently be seen muttering "I'm too fucking old for this" quietly to myself, but eventually I got the hang of it and I believe I found that fine line between being personable and an obnoxious stalker.

Adding to the overall difficulty of this task is my shitty, shitty memory. Generally, once someone tells me their name, I'll forget it by the time I've reciprocated the introduction. I don't mean to do this, but apparently I have the memory of a goldfish. Hi, my name is Sealice. Nice to meet you, I'm Jamie. And then it's gone (although to be fair, I'd probably remember Sealice, as I see it as either Sea-Lice, or hear it as Cialis, the erectile dysfunction drug.  For reals found this one on a baby naming forum years ago. It's my favourite horrible name).

Occasionally, carpet bombing the town's population with my friend requests led to participation in some extremely out of character activities. One invitation came in the form of a Spartan obstacle race. I agreed to do it before I really knew what it was, but I survived and gained some really close friends, and an ongoing and somewhat masochistic racing hobby.  This same tendency to go with the flow in the interest of getting to know people also found me at a country music concert for no reason other than I was invited by nice people. I don't like country music, but it was a good time with good friends in any case. I'll even admit to liking at least two songs. 

At the end of the day, I've come across some amazing people that I'm happy to add to my collection of friends. Because of our move and a necessity to put myself out there, I've had experiences that I never would have had otherwise, like a wine tasting party, where I quickly came to realize that wine and I will never, ever be friends. Because wine is an asshole.

If nothing else, I've come to view making new friends as an ongoing activity, and not something that happens without effort.  We all just need to suck it the fuck up and invite people to do things, even if it's hard and you'd rather just binge-watch netflix in pyjama pants. 

And to all those friends who have been won over by my particular brand of crazy, thanks for initally taking the chance on that strange person talking at you.  You're all amazing.  :-)

Saturday, 11 February 2017

Me vs The Heat Death of the Universe or "July"

Pretty, but in an evil, Mean Girls kind of way
As an adult, I've decided that I really don't like snow. It's cold, which I hate, it's slippery, which makes it shit to drive in, and shovelling it has caused me to severely injure my back.

It's because of that back injury that I'm sitting here now in front of the computer, and not out doing something more fun. Movement is not a thing I'm currently doing a lot of, so in order to distract myself from both the pain, and the insipid snowy landscape out my window, I'm going to write about a heat wave. 

It was July of 2009 and I was 8 months pregnant. This, for those of you who haven't experienced the miracle, meant that I was fucking miserable.  I was massive, everything hurt, and I was lucky enough to experience raging morning sickness throughout the entire affair.  I had trouble sitting because the little parasite would jab me in the ribs causing eventual nerve damage, I couldn't stand because my back was being kind of a dick about that activity, and lying down made my calves irrationally fly into charlie horsed knots.  It was super fun. I'm astounded we ever had a second kid. 

Up until that point, I hadn't thought being pregnant couldn't get worse, and then it did, because as I mentioned, it was July. And it got punishingly hot. 

One of my rare not-actively-puking
When I wasn't sobbing hysterically at the Sarah McLachlan SPCA commercial, or a reveal on Extreme Home Makeover, I was floating in a cold bath contemplating the pros and cons of adding ice cubes. I was melting. Our little condo was an oven. It was 1000 square feet taken directly out of the burning fires of hell, and it was making me crazy. 

And then one afternoon, the heat broke me. Husband came home from work to this insane woman, mad with desire. I wanted an air conditioner. NOW!  

He tried to tell me that buying an air conditioner in a heat wave was going to be next to impossible. Our condo's strata rules didn't allow us to put window mounted units in, so we would have to get a stand alone version, and that wasn't going to be easy.  Challenge accepted. 

Our battle ground was Home Despot; the air conditioner section a post apocalyptic waste land of left over units too small to be useful to anyone. There was absolutely nothing left that would meet our needs. 

And then I spotted it. She was beautiful. Tall, sleek, black and silver, out of her box and set up like the sexy vixen she was. I wanted her.  I waddled my way over to the returns desk where her previous owner was returning her. I looked at him and point blank asked him why he was returning such a beautiful thing? Apparently she was a bit loud, and he didn't like her. I bluntly turned to the woman at the returns desk and said I wanted her (the air conditioner, not the returns lady...though she was fetching). She seemed a bit confused for a moment, and then said that was fine, but I'd have to take it down to the checkout counter at the other end of the store, as she could do returns but not sales.   

Onlookers would likely have described a pregnant Gollum-like figure waddling down the aisle screeching My Precious at anyone in her way, while hugging a ridiculously large air conditioning unit. It was the fastest I'd moved in months. If I could have, I would have skipped. 

One guy even had the audacity to ask if I was buying it....could he have it? He wanted My Precious! But she was mine. I wanted to run over his foot. 

To this day, I'm not really sure how much we paid for the air conditioner, and I don't care. She was the big and beautiful, and made my existence almost tolerable for the remaining weeks of pregnancy. To this day she cools down a room like a boss, and I don't regret bringing her home for a minute. 

So now this snow can go the fuck's time to bring My Precious
out for the summer!

Friday, 3 February 2017

Me vs The Vacuous Ineptitude of Major Companies Poorly Leveraging the Power of the Internet

My baby is growing up. He's quite happy, in fact, to inform you that he's now a grown up. At 3 years old, he feels it's time to get out there into the workforce and become a dump truck. Or a crane. Basically he would like to be a piece of construction equipment. And he also wants his big boy bed.

So, like any good shopper who lives on the fringes of civilization, the internet has become my ally. A plethora of deals at my fingertips, just waiting for me to click send. But this doesn't always work. Sometimes it crashes and burns with the incendiary power of a thousand suns.

After comparing prices, delivery options, and other reasonable shit you compare when looking for big ticket items, I landed on a mattress set sold by a company which we'll call "Sires" in order to protect the guilty.

After spending almost an hour on the phone with their customer service, I rage-cancelled my rather large order with them. Apparently, it's a totally legit Sears business practice to sell you something online, bill you for it, and then simply never send it to you. Ever.

After waiting the better part of a week past the selected delivery date, I finally got through to a real person and asked (very nicely at this point) where my mattress was, given that I had a confirmation email, a delivery date, and a charge on my credit card. Well, as "Edmond" so kindly informed me, it was out of stock, and not getting restocked. I was....unhappy.

Me: Edmond, I'm not really happy about this. I feel like at the time of purchase, your website should have flagged that as an out of stock item so, you know, I didn't buy it.

Ed: Um, well that was the old system, we're on the new system now.

Me: That seems like something of a bug in your system that you all may want to address. When will it be in?

Ed: It looks like it's permanently out of stock.

***I actually put Ed on hold for a minute while I gathered myself so I didn't say something I would later regret***

Me: Ed, you mean to tell me your company charged me for a product you no longer even carry?

Ed: Well it's complicated

Me: No, it really isn't

Ed: Well, big items are held in the warehouse and then if a large order for them comes in, it's not updated on the system...*bla bla bla*

*** I put him on hold again so I could practice some calming breath techniques***

Me: So, by taking my money, you're telling me that it doesn't actually guarantee I'll ever see my item. That's perfect. Good job. Again, your business practices are looking just a hair shady from my perspective.

Basically, it appears that this stellar company took my money, never sent me the mattress, and then just fucking hoped I wouldn't notice?!?!?!? The only reason I had any idea that I was roughly never getting this product was because I called them and gave up an hour of my life to a call centre.

So then they offered me a $50 gift card for my troubles.

Me: Ok fine, send me a different mattress, preferably one that's in stock this time, and take the $50 off it.

Ed: We can't do that. But you can use it on your next purchase!

Me: God help me.

At about this point, I'd given up and with great restraint explained to Ed the finer points of why I would not be shopping with them again, and he could go ahead and refund me for the order I'd otherwise never get.

To his credit, Ed (which is probably not his name, but he felt like an Ed to me) did a formidable job trying to make things work, but unfortunately, it didn't really help. <<they just weren't going to be able to sell me a mattress>>

And so there I was, without a mattress again and surfing the internet for another mattress deal. And I found another store with a website, which for the sake of anonymity we'll call "The Block". They had a special on, they delivered, and they even appeared to have the set in stock.
Sign me up and take my money.

I picked a delivery date and waited.

Then this afternoon (six days later), the day before the mattress was supposed to arrive, I got a call.

Snarky Block Lady: Hi, this is The Block, we've noticed you bought a mattress, but we don't deliver to your area. Oops. You can come pick it up in store.

Me: Oh sweet mother of God, you have got to be kidding me....

SBL: Um, I've refunded you the delivery fee.

Me: Why, oh why, did your website not indicate that delivery to this address wasn't possible. And, for fun, why did it take you over a week to figure that shit out? It was supposed to come TOMORROW!

SBL: Um, I don't really know.

Me: Well, I'm out. Cancel it. I'm done. My kid is sleeping on the floor. Also, you should look into why your website sucks. Because it does.

SBL: Fine. It will take up to a month to refund your money.

Me: *strangled noises* Manager. Find me one.

SBL's Manager: Hi, can I help you. (<-- notice that's not phrased as a question)

Me: Yes. I want my money back, as mattresses are inherently unattainable, and I would like it to take less that a month for that to happen.

SBL's Manager: Oh, she didn't say 30 days, she said 3.

Me: Nope, she said a month.

SBL's Manager: Um, no she said 3 days, you probably misheard.

Me: Yes, I often mistake the words "up to a month" for the words "3 days". Very similar, I can see how that would happen. I remember playing the Telephone game in elementary school. History is replete with alternative facts. Just refund me my money and send me a confirmation email please, and we can all hurry up and never speak to each other again.

SBL's Manager: Sure. But it's a form we send to upper management to void the order, so I'm not sure if I can email it to you.

I took 2 minutes to explain the concept of a scanner and hung up. *Table flip*
So hours of my life and 2 purchases later, I was still mattress-less.

And then I got a hold of a local company called L&B Luxury Beds, recommended by my coworker. They are not a big box store, and yet they apparently have stock, people who answer the phones, and customer service standards. I called them shortly after my blood pressure settled, and within minutes had confirmed that the bed I wanted was in stock and ready for pick up this weekend, and for less than either other company. 

So here's a big plug for the little guys, and a serious shake-your-fucking-heads to the big stores who basically take your money and make you suffer for it. Maybe now my 3 year old will finally get his big boy bed!

While the train bed is cool, he tells me he's a
grown up now, so he needs a big bed...
Putting the old bed inside the new bed helps.