By Karen Anderson, Club Humorist
After spending so much time at home this past year, I’m ready to replace everything in the house with something fresh and new. We have threadbare towels, faded sheets, and lumpy pillows. The potholders are burnt and the cats’ favorite beds are losing their stuffing.
You’d think buying replacements would be easy (on everything but the wallet), but — no! Forget finding the labels on the worn-out products. The printing on them has faded beyond recognition. So, I log on to websites, request new passwords, and then click, click, click through past orders.
But even when I find the name and stock number of the original item, I’m only halfway there. The manufacturer has gone out of business. Or, they’re still in business, but they don’t make fluffy cotton towels anymore. Wouldn’t I like their new towels, made out of rayon, bamboo, and recycled shopping bags?
I got all excited when I found my favorite potholders online. And then, I discovered they’re now available only in the latest decorator colors: limeade green and Day-Glo yellow. I don’t think our kitchen can handle that much excitement.
“Maybe,” the Scholarly Gentleman ventured, “you need to try something new.”
New? New? After much whining, and wondering if maybe our raggedy towels could last a bit longer, I began consulting online guides. You know, those review sites with articles like “Best Shower Curtains for Revitalizing Your Stinky Bathroom Décor” and “12 Potted Plants to Transform Your Pathetic Existence and Bring New Meaning to Your Life.”
These articles each list a dozen products, 10 of which are ghastly. That’s because they’re setting you up to buy one of the two remaining items, both of which are stunning. Sometimes because of quality, and sometimes because of expense. Sometimes both.
I emerged convinced that we need a new house with an all-white interior, 20 gigantic house plants, and floor-to-ceiling windows. I also managed to order us new pillows, from a company that claims to have “an entirely different approach to pillows.”
Two days later, we found out. The pillows arrived in long, narrow boxes, rolled up like burritos. When I unrolled them, they lay flat on the dining room table.
“Are those the new dish towels?” the Scholarly Gentleman asked.
“Augh!” I howled.
But soon the pillows puffed up a bit and looked halfway decent. Two hours later, they were the largest pillows I’d ever seen. And they just kept growing. By the time I raced to get pillowcases to contain them, it was too late.
We smooshed, pounded, and shook the new pillows to no avail. After the second pillowcase ripped open, I gave up and grabbed my laptop.
“Returning them?” the Scholarly Gentleman squeaked. He looked back and forth between the mammoth pillows and their skinny shipping boxes.
“No,” I sighed. “I’m ordering a new set of sheets. Do you want the lime green recycled plastic ones or the Day-Glo orange bamboo?”