I couldn’t sleep last night because I was fixating on a
problem. It all started last year when my boyfriend and I decided to move to
NYC and our toilet seat broke. We went
to Bed, Bath, and Beyond on 6th Ave. to purchase said toilet seat
and on the way back to our apartment, he spotted a Sleepy’s mattress showroom
and decided we needed a King Sized bed.
I’m all for a larger bed as I’m over 6 feet tall and he likes to spread
out, so I very often end up huddled at the edge of the fucking world, or worse,
on the couch. Nevertheless, I had no
intention of shopping for, let alone buying, a mattress when I left the house
and it made for an unwelcome deviation from the plan.
As soon as we walked in, I knew we were screwed. We were
immediately greeted by Wendi, a gruff woman in her early to mid fifties who
seemed less than stoked to be working at Sleepy’s and I’m guessing can throw
back a box or two of pink wine each night.
Wendi showed us a few different mattresses and resorted to snapping her
fingers at me and ordering me to remove my jacket to experience the “full
effect” of each bed.
I still haven’t figured out what kind of special malfunction
this woman suffers from that resulted in her inability to glean that my
indecisiveness had nothing to do with not feeling the fantasy when I tested
each mattress; rather, it was the fact that I had no intention of being there
to begin with, had no desire to make a major purchase on the fly, and would
have preferred at that moment to be in a 3-way with Michelle Bachmann and
Zombie Strom Thurmond. I most definitely said 2 out of 3 of those things audibly in her presence. You should have seen her face when I threw down "Zombie Strom Thurmond." Her powers of
perception notwithstanding, Wendi managed to get me to lay a down payment on a
super sweet King Size bed that I knew would probably not be coming to my
apartment anytime soon, due to the fact that my interior designer boyfriend is
incapable of making design choices for himself and wanted “the perfect
headboard.”
It’s now almost a year later and Wendi won’t stop emailing
and calling me to ask when I’d like to take delivery on my order. There are a few problems with this:
1.
Husband still hasn’t found “the perfect
headboard.” I’m about as shocked at this as I will be when Honey Boo Boo’s meth
lab explodes.
2.
I have no desire to do business with this woman
knowing that she’ll collect a commission on a sale that she hacked her way
through.
3.
I don’t have the fucking money to pay for the rest
of this mattress at this point. Maybe I’ll
set up a Kickstarter.
That last reason is the thing that bugs me the most about
her incessant emails. Doesn’t this bitch
know something’s up? Every time she emails me she reminds me that my boyfriend
is making this decision like he’s a Republican Congressman voting on the debt
ceiling and I have about as much disposable income as a Chinese factory worker. One of the best pieces of advice Heather
McQueen ever gave me (You listening, ho? I’m about to say something nice about
you. Don’t get used to it.) was not to
badger people about things they couldn’t do because there came a point when it
just became a constant reinforcement of everything that was wrong with their
lives.
This proved especially true last night as my “inner
psychologist” started whispering in my ear and very clearly said, “Jay, you’re
only fixating on this because you don’t want to deal with these other problems…” My super terrific brain then played a fucking
speed-round slideshow of all the shit that’s bothering me. Thanks a mil, psyche, I really needed to be
reminded that I don’t have health insurance at 5:30am… what’s that pain in my
side? It’s probably just lupus or polio, no big deal. Sleep tight, self!
Plus, I kept having to get up to pee.
