Touchdown!

We've Broken Up

When I walked up to the service desk, I was expecting to hear one of two things. It would either be, "Sorry, we don't do price adjustments," or "Sure, no problem." I should have known better. Customer service has been dead for years, so I should have known that instead of a simple answer, I would get attitude.

Lots of attitude.

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It's probably no surprise that we have essentially been living at Home Depot and Lowe's for the past month and a half. The joys of moving include the privilege of painting and cleaning and digging and planting and fixing and repairing and replacing and Hey! That list is totally why I haven't slept in forever! Anyway, one of the recent projects has been to banish the ghetto fabulous from the front yard and add a little something the Rich Folk like to call "landscaping." When I spotted the perfect boxwoods at Home Depot a few weeks ago, I immediately bought every last one they had in stock. I knew we would need over 50 of them total, and that 13 they had were a decent start. A few days later, I was at a different Home Depot and bought another 28. A few days after that, I found a dozen more at yet a third Home Depot.

And then I got annoyed.

Instead of being charged $6 per shrub, they rang up at $4. "It's our fall plant promotion," the cashier said. I blinked a few times, quickly doing the math and wanting to scream. Even with coupons and such, I had spent $50 more for all those boxwoods than I would have if I had purchased them just a few days later.

Not cool, Home Depot. Not cool.

I rummaged and dug and foraged, and at last I came up with my receipt for the massive boxwood acquisition. "SCORE!" I thought to myself. I couldn't think of a reason that I couldn't get a price adjustment and figured it certainly couldn't hurt to ask.

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There were two paths to choose from, and yet the service desk associate decided to create her own path. A bumpy path.

"You didn't purchase these at this store," she said.

Did I mention that I have been to essentially every Home Depot in Pittsburgh lately? Yeah, that. The receipt was from a Home Depot store about 15 miles north of where I was standing.

"I'm . . . sorry?" I stammered.

"We shouldn't have to take the hit on this," she retorted.

I blinked. And again.

She sighed. Very loudly.

"So, can I get a price adjustment or should I just bring all of them back?" I asked. I was serious--there were certainly enough boxwoods not yet in the ground for me to be able to pull together a very massive return.

"Let me check with my manager," she said in her most annoyed voice. She picked up her phone and walked to the back of the service desk, I guess so I couldn't hear the conversation.

"Have you even bought anything at this store?" she asked upon her return.

I blinked. And again.

I thought about telling her that I was about to march my behind out to the garden center to buy 20 rose bushes (true story--I need 20 of the same rose bush and they had them). Instead, I yanked a receipt out of my purse and placed it on the counter. "Yeah, I have," I said.

She looked at the receipt carefully, then returned her gaze to the original receipt in question. "We really shouldn't have to take the hit on this," she repeated.

I blinked. And again.

It was then that she went into a long diatribe about how they could do a return, but they really shouldn't have to do the price adjustment since I had purchased the boxwoods at a different Home Depot. A loooooooooong diatribe.

I blinked. And again.

Then I snatched up my receipts and stormed out. I have no doubt that she would have given me my $50 eventually, but not until after she made me feel like a complete jerkwad for "stealing" $50 from her store's bottom line.

Customer service is dead.

And in my head? So is Home Depot.

Fortunately, the view out of the back of our house is lacking in ghetto fabulousness. I only wish the front looked that good.

A Little TOO Smart

The three of us sat gathered in a booth, each focused intently on the meals before us. Alexis was worshiping at the church of the peanut butter and jelly sandwich (which was made wrong, I'll have you know), breaking only occasionally to suck down a little yogurt from a tube. It was a meal that she had selected only after careful consideration of the entire menu.

As she happily chewed on her food, Alexis began to scope out the food choices Mr. Husband and I had made. She eyed my tomato soup, determined that it was not a security risk, and continued on. She examined Mr. Husband's sandwich, found it to be lacking, and continued on.

Then she spotted it.

Mr. Husband's bag of potato chips.

Alexis had been given her choice of sides, and potato chips were certainly a part of the menu presentation. She chose yogurt instead, and yet, she found herself wanting a chip or two. Or ten.

She looked at Mr. Husband.

She looked at the chips.

She looked at Mr. Husband.

She looked at the chips.

She looked at me.

She looked at the chips.

At last, she decided on a strategy. I knew she was thinking long and hard about those potato chips, so I was just waiting for her to shove her grubby little hands straight into the bag. Instead, she pasted on her best smile, gazed up at her Daddy, and mustered every ounce of sweet she could find as she said, "Daddy, I like to share with you."

Now that is how you steal food off of a man's plate.

I fear for the kid's future spouse-type person.