DW got our paperwork to us, and we proceeded to the cashier where we emptied our savings account and promised Daughter 1 in exchange if our check didn't clear. The cashier noted that we bought the five-year, lifetime warranty treatment package and handed me my very own bottle of furniture cleaner. We got our golden ticket to pick up the chair o' lounging, and we were on our way.
Just before the exit, The Dad and I stopped to admire a dining room set that had a price tag of over $30,000.
"Who the hell would buy this?" The Dad pondered out loud and loudly, causing the 76-year old champagne-blond who was admiring the fine craftsmanship and wondering which of her three formal dining rooms this would be best suited for to turn her nose at us.
"This cannot possibly be right," The Dad said, still expressing his thoughts right as they came into his head. "It's not even that nice looking." At this point, the champagne-blond wrinkled her up-turned nose. Obviously, we had varying tastes. I'd venture a guess that she wouldn't even allow paper plates if she had that table in her house, even if they were the knock-off Chinette.
"I wouldn't want this. It's gaudy." The unfiltered Dad continued to let his words flow like lava right from his volcanic mouth. "Would you want this piece of ugly in our house?" he asked me. Then he put the small bottle he was carrying on the table top and examined the tag a bit more closely muttering things like, "Holy crap!" "What a crock!" and "If I had $30,000, I'd take us on a cruise and get you a boob job."
I shifted my purse and my very own bottle of furniture cleaner around so I could do some examining of my own. I picked up the small bottle of The Dad's and examined it thoroughly. My man was complex to say the least. "What's this?" I questioned with a grin.
"That's our furniture soap," he answered and then continued to spout off the utter insanity of a $30,000 dining room set that "The Daughters would dismantle into tooth picks within half an hour."
"No," I said calmly while stifling a giggle. "This is not our furniture soap," I said, then I held up my very own bottle and said, "This is our furniture soap."
The Dad lifted his head up from under the table where he was looking for wood glue drippings that are common on most of our no-where-near-$30,000 furniture. "Then what's that?" he asked, grabbing his little bottle.
"That," I explained, "is the hand sanitizer from the cashier's desk."
Immediately, he took it back. If the store was selling a dining room set for $30,000, he "sure as all heck" didn't want to know what they'd charge for a half-full bottle of hand cleaner.
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