Illustration by Jan A. Igoe
You’ve probably noticed that everyone north of Virginia is moving here, so home prices are skyrocketing. I want to be ready just in case some homeless New Yorker comes knocking.
A realtor friend suggested (strongly) that my “vintage” kitchen needs sprucing up. If it weren’t for the coffeepot, I wouldn’t need a kitchen, but buyers are fussy.
They aren’t olive green, but my appliances aren’t gracing the cover of House Beautiful, either. The small, stingy fridge was manufactured in ancient times when they were expected to outlive elephants. No ice maker. No filtered water. Basically, it’s a chilly box with a vegetable drawer. Today’s home buyers expect 36-inch monsters with lots of fancy doors, preferably French.
It was summer sale time, so I went hunting. My old box barely qualifies as a fridge these days. When these new refrigerator doors swing open, it’s like opening night on Broadway and your potato salad is the star of the show. Once you experience that thrill, you’ll never be able to store pickles in a no-frills rectangle again.
Of course, every fridge in my price range was out of stock. I was ready to quit when I spotted a lonely Whirlpool on sale at half-price with every tantalizing feature imaginable. It was gorgeous but marred by a microscopic dent. No one who keeps 37 magnets on her fridge is going to let that stop her. It was love at first sight, so I raced to the sales associate to claim it.
Her: “You’ll have to get it off the floor immediately.”
Me: “I’d like it delivered.”
Her: “We don’t deliver damaged goods. Cash and carry, only. Bring your truck.”
Me: “Well, let me pay for it …”
Her: “No payment until your truck is parked outside, ready to go. Store policy.”
Me: “Dumb store policy.”
I offered to strap it on my back and drag it home, but they wanted a truck at the front entrance before cash changed hands. Something seemed off, so I checked with another associate and two different managers, begging them to take my money, my firstborn, and maybe a dog, but no. “It’s store policy.”
Tropical Storm Elsa was hitting the beach about the same time I went searching for movers. It probably took me 30 calls to find one. Truck drivers are reluctant to deliver refrigerators when roads are flooding, but one finally took pity on me.
We hurried back to the store to bring my fridge home, but the price tag was gone. A “Sold” sticker had taken its place. I was devastated. And upset.
My inner volcano erupted, spewing molten lava in every direction. People were fleeing like I was Sissy Spacek destroying the prom in Carrie. Whether you live in the Pee Dee or upstate, you probably heard me. “Let’s see the truck that’s moving that fridge,” I yelled.
The associate seemed bewildered. “What truck?” she asked. “We deliver.”
None of the reasons they refused to do that for me made any sense, so I treated several managers to Hurricane Jan. My mover even chimed in.
I made a lot of noise that I’m not proud of. Justified, yes. Proud, no.
Back at home, sipping coffee in my vintage kitchen and watching the “other” storm, I couldn’t look my old, reliable fridge in the icebox. It couldn’t possibly know that I’d strayed, but I swear it seemed colder.
Jan A. Igoe advises anyone shopping for major appliances to bring a truck and a couple of powerlifters along in case you find a good deal. Theoretically, you could also whack the one you like with a hammer. (Just kidding.) Join us at HumorMe@SCLiving.coop any time.