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)
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)
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