Anything Lime



Apartment, meet Kramfors

One of the many things in life we often have no control over and have to just suck it up and deal with is the delivery system currently in place. You know, the one that requires us having to loaf around the house waiting for the delivery guy to show up (most likely hours after the original time bracket that was quoted).

My Kramfors delivery was scheduled for Saturday. For those of you who are unfamiliar, “Kramfors” is a word that in the land of Ikea means “practical, inexpensive, comfortable and chic sofa that is large enough to seat four.” The plan was that the driver was going to call me in the morning to let me know the specific delivery time. Sure enough, I get a call around ten, and he tells me “Sometime between two and four.” Great! We can get the couch set up and still have time for the art fair!

The Winter Park Sidewalk Art Festival, an annual cultural event that is quite popular among Central Floridians, happened to fall on the same weekend as couch delivery day. I knew the world would somehow thwart my plans to go this art fair! AH!

I watched the clock eagerly in hopes that by what the delivery guy meant was two o’clock rather than four. As Patrick’s case of the tendinitis only worsened throughout the days since he bought his brace (I know, wrist braces are totally awesome), his parents forced him to see a doctor as soon as they got into town. It went a little something like this.

Whitney: “Patrick, you should see a doctor.”
Whitney’s Mom: “Patrick, you should see a doctor.”
Whitney’s Grandma: “Patrick, you should see a doctor.”
Patrick: “No. I’ll be fine.”
Whitney, Whitney’s Mom, Whitney’s Grandma: <Rolling of eyes>
Patrick’s Mom: “Patrick, you should see a doctor.”
Patrick: “Ok mom, I love you.”
Whitney: You should see my acupuncturist.
Patrick: No.
Patrick’s Mom: “You should see Whitney’s acupuncturist.”
Patrick: “Ok. Thanks mom. I really love you.”

Such is my life.

I call my acupuncturist, who luckily had a cancellation for that very day, Saturday. She could get him in at 1:00, which meant that he might or might not be done by the time the couch was delivered. So we took two cars with the hopes that the day would play out as follows.

1. Acupuncture appointment at 1:00
2. Couch delivery at 2:00
3. Art fair at 2:30

Patrick was very brave. His first acu session went well, although he still hasn’t noticed any improvement. While she was putting the needles in, I became insanely jealous. I should probably see someone about that. Hmmm…. I wonder if acupuncture treats acupuncture addiction. Interesting.

She used 16 needles, which was more than even I had my first time, and she placed them into his hands, feet, wrists and ankles. He was an excellent patient despite his inability to concentrate because of his dad’s tendency to ask way too many (inappropriate) questions.

So while we didn’t get a call from the delivery man saying that he was on his way, I left and took Patrick’s father with me. Partly to wait for the couch, but mostly for another reason having nothing to do with the couch and everything to do with Jim’s short attention span and the fact that he’d become completely bored with acupuncture.

Shortly after they got home from his appointment, Patrick and his mom, Wendy, headed off to our old apartment to pack the last of our things while Jim and I stayed behind to wait for the couch. I took a short nap with Kya, snurgled deeply into her back hair, and then spent some time cleaning up the place. (Note: It’s insane how unatractive back hair is on humans and how attractive it is on dogs. Just an observation.) When 4:00 rolled around and I realized I was still without Kramfors, I was more than a little annoyed, and I called the delivery man.

“Hello?”
“Yes, hello. This is Whitney Hoyt. I’m calling about my couch.”
“Whitney who?”
“Whitney Hoyt. I’m the one with the Ikea couch that should have ALREADY BEEN DELIVERED!”
“Oh, ok.” (This followed by four minutes of two men quietly chatting about celebrity gossip, the world series, haircuts, whatever. Finally, I heard them mention my couch.
“We’ll be there sometime between two and six.”
“Umm…. what you mean is four and six. Two is long gone, buddy. I know because I’ve been TRAPPED IN MY APARTMENT SINCE THEN! BLAHHH!!”
“Ok, ma’am. See you between two and six.”
“AHHH! FOUR AND SIX!”

So Jim is long asleep as I just wander around my house with nothing to do except repeatedly shut my face and head in the sliding glass door. At 5:50 I pick up my phone and begin pacing, all while mumbling threatening things. Practice makes perfect. I was going to call at exactly six o’clock and say the meanest things I could think of. Was it their fault? Probably not. Had they had a hectic Saturday chock full of heavy lifting and delivering things? Probably. Was I going to do it anyway just to release all of the hostility that had gathered inside me like a swarm of fricken sharks with fricken laser beams on their foreheads? Absolutely. Two minutes later, the phone rings. I became so excited I raised one eyebrow and could feel a set of horns instantly portrude from atop my head. Yes.

“Hello, is this Whitney Hoyt?”
“Why yes, this is Whitney Hoyt. The SAME Whitney Hoyt who has been waiting ALL DAY for her couch. How my I assist you?”
“We’re on our way.”
“THANK THE LORD!”
“We’ll be there within an hour.”
“RAAAAAAAAAAAWWWWRRRRRRR!!!!”

…waiting.

Finally, at 7:30, I get a knock on the door. Not between two and four, not between four and six. Seven fucking thirty. So long, art fair. (Or, as Jim likes to say it, “fart air.”)

When he handed me the couch cover — the smaller of the two packages being delivered — I thought my waiting was over. I was wrong. I was absolutely, snap-my-neck, spit-in-my-face wrong. The amount of time it took for the couch to actually arrive on my property? It was half of the time it took to get the blasted thing up the stairs. They had sent me the greatest couch and the two WIMPIEST delivery guys since the dawn of time. Since the invention of the couch. Since the invention of the delivery truck.

I was so angry I just sat down on the loveseat and waited — door open — for the two puny guys to come up the stairs with my couch. I have to admit I was overwhelmed with satisfaction when I heard things like, “OUCH! STOP! OOH! MY ANKLE!” Or “PUT IT DOWN! OW! MY HAND!” The two huffed and puffed for what seemed like hours while I listened, smiling. I even caught myself a time or two muttering things like, “How does that karma feel, biotch?!”

It was about 25 minutes into the “delivery” when Patrick arrived. Seeing how impossible it was that these two men were not going to be able to do this, he began lifting the couch, wrist brace and all. What a pathetic sight to see. So what happened was we ended up buying a couch, paid a lot of money to have it delivered, and then Patrick carried it up the stairs despite his wicked case of the tendinitis. Yes, staying home ALL FRICKEN DAY, missing the art show and then eventually delivering our own couch was a wonderful way to spend our Saturday, a day I would have rather spent skinny dipping or belly dancing or whatever it is the kids do these days.

The next day Patrick took me to the art show, as promised. We also took Kya, which ultimately got us kicked out of the art show. Not because she bit someone, not because she was a dog, but because she’s black. Ok, fine, it is because she’s a dog. No dogs allowed in a public place on a Saturday. Fuck you, Winter Park Sidewalk Art Festival.

After getting yelled at by a bunch of police and feeling as though we’d smuggled in some enslaved children or a few kilos of drugs from South Africa, we hung our heads and walked, embarrassed, into a dog store called Bullfish. One woman, probably in her sixties, tried to offer some sympathy. It sounded less like sympathy and more like someone had attached a foghorn to a knife and jabbed the entire loud, stabby device into my ear.

“Oh, we love you and we think you should stay,” she said, looking at Kya before directing her eyes toward us. “Ya know, she is a big dog, so I could understand why they would be more inclined to make her leave. Our dog is a yorkie and we had her in a container, and they STILL made us take her home. Your dog is really big though, and our dog was small, blah blah blah.”

Container? Pfff.

I socked her. I’m not above punching an old lady in the jaw. Bitch.

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