On normal days, patio sets, and Walmart
It was a combination of weather, spring springing, and the fact the second shot of the Moderna vaccine was coursing through my veins, but I’ll tell you what: Last Sunday was about as normal and beautiful a day I’ve had since this whole pandemic started.
Things kicked off with all three of my children having three separate playdates. Yeah, I hate they’re called “playdates” also, but whaddya gonna do. It is what it is. And all three of them had something to do that didn’t involve me.
I don’t want to make it sound like I don’t enjoy their company, but after a year of “you guys wanna go for a hike or something?” it’s been a swell treat to have them be able to enjoy the company of their peers. My youngest was at a friend’s house, my middle had a friend here, my oldest was snowtubing at Camelback.
So how did I enjoy the lovely sunshiney weather with all my kids otherwise engaged? Why, I began to put together the outdoor chair and table set my wife purchased from Walmart back in January.
Yep. Time to break out the ol’ tools and …
“By the way, what is this and can I borrow yours?” I texted my handy friend. It was a picture of a wrench-thing from the directions that came in the box. It was a wrench. Or something. It was needed to put together the patio set, regardless.
My friend gave me the “LOL, it’s a ratchet, and yes. I’m assuming you don’t know what size you need?”
He stopped by, asked if he could see what the ratchet would be ratcheting, and as he was going through the parts, he found … the wrench ratchet thingee. Came complete with the deal. He then got out of my driveway quicker than I can say, “If you’re not doing nothing, you feel like hanging out?” which is code of “I’ll ply you with beers if you put this thing together for me because I’m helpless.”
So yes. On to the putting together of the patio set. I got one chair together. But the second chair - as well as the sofa part were impossible to put together. And I say “impossible” in the literal sense: You had to slip the seat into the backrest before you screw it together, but the welding was off by at least ¼ inch, and thus you couldn’t slip the piece together. My wife - who is handy was not amused by my seeming inability to finish the job, so she came out to slip the two things together and only succeeded in slicing open her knuckle practically to the bone by trying to force the pieces of metal to get together.
At this point, I had about 100 pounds of garbage in my driveway and a torn-asunder box. I called Walmart, demanding they either A) send me a new $250 patio set, B) give me my money back, or C) send Mr. Walmart to my house to pick this crap up.
They chose D), get lost, and so I put the box back together and threw all the pieces in there and stuffed the thing in the minivan and headed over to Walmart at Hamilton Marketplace with vinegar running through my veins. I was ready to pounce.
The parking lot was crowded. I had to push, pull, and jimmy the box out of the van and onto a cart. It was, in a word, unwieldy. I was ready for a fight.
I got to the front door, and it was packed. People coming in and out. It felt like a normal day. And then I was face to face with a young couple at the entrance. They were coming out with two carts full of stuff. A microwave had fallen out from under the cart the guy was pushing. He was frustrated. The woman had a carpet and a giant plant, among other things in her cart. Tension was high. Logjam at Walmart.
I came through in the clutch. “Congrats on your new apartment!” I said to the couple, breaking the tension and giving everyone reason to smile. Felt like old times.
And guess what? I got to the customer service desk and they took this fugazi patio set back without question. No vinegar needed.
Six hours later …
I picked up the snowpants my son threw on the floor when he got home. I grabbed the rest of the family snowpants out of the closet and packed them in a Hefty bag, figuring we won’t need them again until next winter. I went through my son’s pockets. Found a wet pair of socks. And … about a half-dozen unused face masks. I took them out to put back into our supply, but then thought better of it.
I left them in his pocket, hoping - hoping, hoping, hoping that when he pulled his snowpants on again next winter for the first time, he’d reach into his pockets, pull out the masks, and quietly say, “Hmmmph. Remember these?”
It was a normal day.