It’s Sunday morning, and the sky is a little overcast, but you can practically smell the promise of a beautifully sunny day in the air. You have a new dishwasher in your kitchen, just waiting to be installed. Nothing can mar the perfection of your morning coffee.
Except. Well, except EVERY-FREAKIN-THING!
Here’s what happened. My new dishwasher was supposed to arrive Thursday, and the big national retailer I bought it from was supposed to phone me to advise me that it had arrived. They didn’t. So I called. Yes, my dishwasher was in, and ready to be picked up. Great! Despite my desire to drop all other commitments and run over there with a dolly myself and wheel the thing home on foot, I agreed to wait until Saturday morning when I could hitch a ride over with my friend with a truck (yes, the ubiquitous friend with a truck – she actually said, "that’s why I had to buy a truck, Katherine, because the next best thing to having a truck is having a friend with a truck…so really, I did it for you!")
By the time all was said and done, it was lunchtime when we arrived back at home with my new dishwasher. Oh wait, actually, it wasn’t my new dishwasher. In fact, it was the wrong new dishwasher. To the tune of $350 less of a dishwasher than what we had bought.
After no less than four phone calls and talking to three people in person at the store, we decided to return the dishwasher for a refund. The best these guys could do for us was to say they would leave a note for the original salesman, who would re-order the dishwasher for us when he came back from holiday next week. Then it would take two weeks for it to be shipped in.
Hello? Three more weeks of dishpan hands? I think not.
So off we trudged to a local, non-national-chain appliance retailer where we found a beautiful new LG dishwasher that was better than the store brand we had just returned, cost $100 less, and – get this – was IN STOCK RIGHT NOW.
So we brought it home. And we almost installed it, but the hose from the old dishwasher was a wee little bit short.
And here’s where the fritters and the beautiful Sunday morning come in.
First thing Sunday, I was sent to Rona for a length of dishwasher hose. And a new coupling. But it wasn’t quite the right one. So back I went. And yet again, somehow the part I bought didn’t fit the bill. And once more. In the end, I made four trips to Rona before we decided we actually needed a plumber (funny enough, when I called one, he advised me to rent the right tool at Rona, which we did, and Hubster installed the dishwasher perfectly today).
What kills me is that there is a Tim Horton’s in Rona. Right in the main thoroughfare to the cash registers. It’s pretty much impossible to miss. And it smells so darn good. On my first trip, it didn’t even register with me, so intent on pex tubing was I. On the second trip, I eyed the blueberry fritters, but not even very longingly. On the third trip, I had already made up my mind to get a fritter. But I resisted! Very proud of myself, I was. And then. The fourth. Trip. To Rona. It killed me. Just the fact that I was there…again…on a fool’s errand of elbows and t-joints and crimping tools and copper rings.
I got the blueberry fritter.
I ate it in the van on the way home. I hid the Timmie’s bag at the bottom of the garbage in the garage.
It was the best thing I had all day.