The Clampets Meet Mr. Bridgewater

Well, I'm sure you've been holding your breath for this, so it's my pleasure to let you know that our couch fiasco is over.  There is no longer a hole in our living room where a couch should be.

I know.  It's a relief for us, too.

The place that had been holding on to our previous sectional was gracious enough to cancel our order and cut us a refund check reasonably fast, so at least that part of our customer service experience was pleasant.  And get this, guys..... they actually asked me to "stay on the line to answer a quick customer survey."  I thought to myself, "Wow.  Really? I just cancelled an order and asked for a refund because I was so disgusted with your company, but...okay."  So,  I stayed on the line and punched in numbers rating my experience on a scale of 1-5, and when the automated voice asked me if I had anything to add, I waited for the beep and told them that the only thing I didn't like was the part where they took our money and then never delivered our furniture.

I think they should work on that.

Anyway, we found a new place with great inventory and prices.  When we told the salesperson about our experience with the other place out in Rancho Cucamonga, he said, "Oh wow!  You drove past three of our stores on the way out there." Hearing that,  Mr. C and I felt really stupid because between our two smart phones and ability to access the internet, we should've been able to find this place sooner.  Just call us the Beverly Hillbilly Clampets.

No, really.  Call us the Clampets, because this was Matt's truck driving across town with our new sectional in back.  The ottoman is balanced on top with nothing but twine and (I'd like to think) the many, many prayers I offered up to The Lord and anyone else who was listening as I followed along behind.

So, that was our morning.  We had to go to a cocktail party that evening, which was an extremely weird contrast to our morning.  Just to be clear, Matt and I are not normally the cocktail party type, but someone from the school district decided that it'd help the school's program if he met some people from the museum.... and since they were all going to be en masse at this party, an invitation was secured, and off we went.

The event was located in a beautiful mid-century modern home that was built right up against the mountain in the old Movie Colony section of Palm Springs. We purposely got there an hour late, so we had to park down the hill and walk up.  Halfway there, as we were walking past lines of Maseratis and Audis, Matt and I started exchanging "What are we getting into?" glances.  Clearly, these people were not our people- meaning, there was a good chance none of them had driven down Highway 111 with living room furniture piled in the back of their vehicles in the last 6 hours.

Once inside, however, I began to feel less intimidated because it became clear that no one was going to look down their noses at us.  Everyone was much too busy smiling huge, toothy smiles and working the room.  There was an open bar and some good people watching to do, so my glass of wine and I found a corner while Matt was whisked away to do a round of schmooze.

Just a little heads up here: If you feel that observations of fashion at a bourgeoisie party may bore you, then feel free to skip this paragraph.  For everyone else, you may interested to know that socks, or the lack of them, are used to make fashion statements among the upper-class. I came to this conclusion after noticing that the host was wearing a snakeskin jacket with skinny trousers and loafers with no socks, while another man was wearing sockless topsiders with shorts.  Yet another man, a father, apparently because he brought a baby with him (unless that was just an accessory, it was a little hard to tell at this party), sat down and I noticed he was wearing socks as pink as Pepto-Bismol.

So, socks.  Yeah.  That's a thing among the elite.  Now you know.

Anyway, the whole evening might have been pretty dull had I not met Mr. Bridgewater.

Mr. Bridgewater cornered me as Matt and I were making our way towards the door to leave.  An elderly British man, he was a vision of beige, from his head to toes: faded beige-ish blond hair combed back across a partly bald head, beige skin, yellowish beige teeth, and a beige jacket (tweed, of course!).

He was drunk.

"Oh, hello dear." he said to me in his very clipped English accent.  "Do tell me your name."

I introduced myself as Tacy Cauthron, and held out my hand for him to shake.  He took it and didn't let go.  Instead he said, "I didn't quite catch that.  One more time please." He leaned in closer so that I could speak directly into his ear, which was still hard to do because he was swaying so badly.

"Tacy Cauthron."

"Oh, no!"  He was very emphatic and demurring at the same time. "That won't do!  Tell me, please,what is your maiden name?"

Matt is tugging on my arm, his friend is looking on disgustedly, but I decide I can't be rude to poor, wasted Mr. Bridgewater.  I'd spent the past hour on the outside watching the show, and suddenly here he was, pulling me right into the madness.  I was a tiny bit delighted.

"Um, Herrington."

"Herrington, you say?" He tries to place a hand on my shoulder, but he's too drunk, and it brushes my left boob instead. I step back, but he still has my hand in a firm grip, and we sway awkwardly together.

"Yes, that's right.  Herrington."

"Well, THAT is much better, dear.  You should hyphenate!" He seems very relieved and proud of himself for solving a problem that I never knew I had.

"Well, thank you, Mr. Bridgewater.  I"ll consider it.  Nice meeting you." And I left before he could accidentally feel me up again.

So, friends, from this experience I learned that one fancy-schmancy up-scale cocktail party is enough for this girl.  I'm happy to stick with my people from now on.

Sincerely,
Tacy Herrington-Cauthron-Clampet (per Mr. Bridgewater)

Taking Control of the Beast

There's an expression I've gotten fond of using while working with my tutoring clients.  When they express to me their dislike/annoyance/absolute soul-wrenching-hatred for a concept or task, I tell them that they've got to reach out and "take control of the beast."  The ones who are old enough to get the metaphor tend to roll their eyes at me.  The ones who are too young and literal get wide eyed and nervously ask where is this beast to which I am referring.

I love messing with them.

Kidding.  Anyway, here's an example of what I'm talking about.  I have a client with whom I've been working four years.  He's a freshman in high school now and he HATES fractions (which seems to be the normal reaction to fractions amongst my group of clients).  And though every year that we've worked together, fractions continue to make an appearance in his math classes, every year he gets upset and nervous whenever we have to work a problem with fractions in it.

"Uh, what's that doing there?"he'll ask, referring to the fraction that showed up in a linear inequality.  He's eyeing it like one would eye a cockroach that shows up for a dinner party.

I reply in a calm, soothing voice.  "It's a fraction.  I told you, they don't go away.  But it's okay, you know how to do this."

"No!  No I don't!" He's freaking out, which he does once or twice a lesson.  "I've never seen this before in my life."  I push away the urge to bang my head against the table because working with someone with severe ADD is sometimes like working with Dory from Nemo.  We've done fractions in one way or another since he was in 5th grade. I can almost feel the hairs on my scalp turning gray as he's swearing complete ignorance of fractions.

Instead I raise my eyebrows and tell him "You've got to stop being afraid of fractions.  Every time we come across one, you only want to know enough to get you through the problem.  You've got to reach out and take control of the beast, man!  Only then will you be released from your fear and power and mastery will be yours, all yours!"

Yes, I really am that dorky with my clients.  They love it.  (At least the cool ones do.)

Anyway, it didn't happen with that lesson, but he did eventually change his mindset about fractions.  I think when I named "fear" as the reason fractions were so hard for him, he realized that he wasn't powerless.  It helped that fourteen year old boys don't like to be told that they are scared of something.  I used that knowledge to my full advantage.

In using that expression with my clients, I've also realized how much it applies to life in general.  How many tasks do we procrastinate on because they feel overwhelming?  For one reason or another, we're afraid of the issue and we learn to cope around it.  This works for a while, but the problem is that the real issue never goes away.  It hangs around like a little monkey on our back, creating chaos and unrest in our lives.

Probably like you, I have more than a few beasts.  Some of them are really small.... things like cleaning the bathrooms.  I usually avoid that beast for as long as I can, (at least until it becomes clear that we're violating health codes).  That beast is the worst, especially because it keeps coming back every week.

And then there's my big beast- the one I've been ignoring for a while: what am I going to do with my life beyond the kids?  I have a college degree and a teaching credential.  When I left the classroom right before I had J, I did it with every intention of going back someday.  But now.... I don't know.

When I was a young girl, I wanted to be a writer.  I have always felt that that's what I'm supposed to be doing.  This blog is a half-hearted attempt at doing something about that goal.  Yet, I haven't pursued anything beyond that.  I've written stories that I never submit, and I only share my post with my Facebook friends because it's safe.  Though I have friends and acquaintances who tell me that my writing is good, I doubt them and wonder about the people who don't say anything.  I listen to all my own insecurities, believe them, and take little action towards my dream, all because I'm afraid.  

So, the point of me being embarrassingly vulnerable right now and telling you all this is that I'm going to be make some changes to this blog.  I don't know what those changes are going to be.  I may be changing the formatting and marketing this blog in more forums.  Or, I may be shutting this blog down completely and turning MeanieMom into a book (although with a different title because truth be told, I have never really like the name of the blog).

Either way, what's important is not necessarily that I'm successful in either attempt.  Success would be nice, but it's not my main priority.  I just want to tame this beast.  It's been on my back too long, and I want to do something about it.  You readers, my little Facebook family, have been so wonderful to me.  When I say thanks for reading, it's such an understatement, because every time you all leave a comment, or even just "like" a post, it gives me validation.  Some people will say that one shouldn't need validation from others to feel good about their work, but in this case, that's BS.  Writers write to be read.  You read my stuff.  I feel like a writer.  Thank you.

So have a good weekend, guys.  Get out there and tame your own beasts.  Or, you know, just relax, enjoy your weekend and worry about the beast on Monday.  Whatever you want.  I love you all either way.

Come, Sit on My Imaginary Sofa

This has been our living room since the end of August.  Two patio chairs, a kid table, a dog bed, and then nothing but big, big empty space.  I posted a pic a few weeks ago of Roo watching The Love Boat while sitting in one of the beach chairs.  A friend commented that she thought that this was on purpose to enhance the whole ambience of the show.  Um, no.  It's just the current level of glamour this household has been living at for the last two months.

I'm sure you're asking the logical question: where's the couch? To which I would answer, "Where, indeed?"

We are experiencing a bit of a couch fiasco.

In August, we decided to buy a new couch.  The one we had was used, and though it had served us and it's previous family well, cushions were sagging, threads were fraying, and it was generally looking a little sad.  It didn't help that the kids had a habit of constantly leaning over the back cushions to speak with me in the kitchen- so much so that the chaise cushion ended up permanently squashed into a forty five degree angle. I don't know which bothered me more- the wonky cushions or me, having to constantly exclaim "STOP LEANING OVER THE COUCH!!!".

Probably the latter.

Anyway.  We went down to a local furniture store, found a set we loved and bought it.  Delivery was set for 5 days in the future.  We came home, put our old couch on Craigslist, sold it promptly, and waited for the delivery of the new couch.

It came, but it wasn't what we expected.  We thought we were buying a living room set (because that's how it was advertised) and we thought that set included a recliner (because that recliner was sitting with the set), but when it came, we only received two pieces of furniture- no recliner (because we had not yet learned our lesson about reading small print carefully. Lesson is now learned.)

So, with some minor arguing, that set went back and we were refunded.  Back to square one, we drove out of town to a furniture store in Rancho Cucamonga and bought a new set.  It was to be delivered in 2 weeks.

Well.  I'm not going to bore you with the details, but two weeks came and went.  Then three. We called, got one story, called a few days later, got a different story, and the bottom line is that I received a phone call a few days ago (the first from them, up to that point we had to call them to track down our couch).  The gentleman informed me that the couch's delivery date was being moved up another few weeks  and that we weren't likely to receive it until the end of the month.

Friends.  When I am upset, there are two likely outcomes with me.  I will either remain polite and the offending party will have no idea that I'm angry with them, or I will completely loose it and hop a train to crazy town.  I wish I knew how to behave somewhere in the middle there, because I would love for people to know that I'm angry without also thinking that I'm nuts, but I've never been able to manage that.

So, upon hearing this news, I was quiet for a moment.  Then I very calmly asked him if he was kidding. He replied that he was sorry, he wasn't.  And that's when the pudding went to poop.  I started screeching something about customer service and demanded to know why a couch that was supposed to take 2 weeks is ending up taking eight weeks, and how we have a big empty hole in our living room.

And that's when I did something completely insane.

I saw that big hole in our living room and had a little glimmer of spiteful inspiration. The little voice in my head whispered "Yes! Say it!", and the next thing I knew, in my very most indignant voice, these words were coming out of my mouth: "I am having a party here in a few weeks.  A party... And there is a giant hole in my living room where a couch is supposed to be!  Where are my guests going to sit?"

You guys.  I am a ridiculous person.  There is no party. I made it up.  I was yelling at this customer service agent about how my imaginary guests are not going to have a place to sit at my imaginary party because......I don't know.  Maybe I was hoping that he'd think "Oh no!  She's having a party without a couch and it's all my company's fault!  Something should be done to get her couch to her sooner!"

But of course that didn't happen, and I got even more ridiculous. "Do you know what?  Do you KNOW what? When my guests are over here and we're all staring at the big empty space where the sofa should be, I am going to tell them all about this place and the terrible experience we've had with you!  All THIRTY FIVE of my guests will know exactly who is responsible for us not having a couch!"

That's right.  Out of my lips (surprising even me) came an exact number of imaginary guests. Thirty five.  Hmm.  Nice number.  Mostly couples, likely, with a few singles mixed in.  We'll all wear cocktail attire.  For some reason, I fancy the women accessorizing with those long cigarette holders.  Everyone can stand about posing with their martini glasses, clucking their tongues and staring at the spot where my couch should be while soft jazz music plays in the background.

Then they'll all go home and write on their imaginary social media accounts about how absolutely awful the furniture company is and then their imaginary friends will read it and pass it on, until it all gets back to this furniture company.  They'll have no choice but to give me my couch immediately because they have to save face since the whole world knows what a disaster they are.

You see?  It pays to have friends in imaginary places.

Except no, not really.

The customer service agent was completely unimpressed with my fantastical claim.  He just asked me in a bored voice if I wanted him to cancel the order so a refund could be issued.  With my rant over, I felt somewhat deflated.  I told him that I'd have to discuss it with my husband and that I'd call him back.

It's been three days and I haven't called them back because, ugh.  I don't want to deal with waiting for a refund.  I don't want to go out and look at more couches.  I don't want to wait for another delivery from another store that may turn out to be just as bad as this one.  I also don't want to be without a couch for another month.

So, with all that said, does anyone know of a reliable furniture store that is not likely to hold a sectional hostage for weeks on end?  Do good companies even exist anymore? I'm starting to wonder if good, honest stores are just a figment of my imagination.

Let me know your thoughts.