How to Purchase a Mattress

A couple years back a colleague and I ended up getting the gigantic presidential suite at the Hyatt Regency O’ Hare in Chicago due to a mistake on their end. But that’s another story. The beds in that palatial suite were amazing. Because of my back problems, I knew I needed a better bed than the one we had been sleeping on for the last 10 years. So, I started researching mattresses.

I read a quick Internet article on what rip-off artists some mattress sales people are. Always up for a good challenge I formulated a plan and went into my local discount mattress store to see what kind of deal I could muster. I found a mattress I liked at the local Costco and I printed out the specifications without any of the store information or the cost. On another sheet I printed out the store information and the price.

I walked in and asked the kind salesperson to see “this” mattress. I handed him the info sheet. He immediately brought me to the most expensive mattress in the store costing a little over $3,500. There’s no way I was buying a mattress for $3,500, but I knew I had him trapped. I lay on the mattress for about twenty minutes. Every five minutes or so he would check on me, not wanting to lose the sale to another associate, and I asked him again, “Are you sure this is the mattress?” He became so tired of me asking this question that he brought the store manager to look at the specs and confirm that this was indeed the mattress. They both assured me it was.

When my 20 minutes had passed I told them I would like the mattress in a California King if possible. They were delighted and so was I. We got to the counter and they started ringing me up when I asked them if they still price match, like it says on their window. “Yes, we do. Do you have the advertisement from another store?” I pulled out the Costco information with the price on it. It was $1099. They both looked at me in horror. The store manager then said, “Well, I’m not so sure this is the one. I’ll have to check.” In front of several other customers I pointed out that several times they assured me this was the mattress and that the manager gave me his word that it was. I was being honest and gave them every chance before the sale to show me the correct mattress. Now that the price was considerably less, they tried changing their story.

You see, they were trying to rip me off thinking I was one of those people who cared more about the product than the price and would pay anything. Their assumption backfired. Very reluctantly they rang me up. Then I asked them if this included free delivery and the free box spring. They looked at me with some contempt but acquiesced. Before all was done I also pointed out their most recent advertisement that offered a free down comforter. I pulled that out of my pocket, too. The manager looked at me without thinking and said, “Really?” I looked at the customers behind me and he quickly apologized for his remark. He went into the back room where his manager was working and I could hear a couple of bad swears emanating from their warehouse.

The mattress was delivered on time. A mix up with the box spring was quickly remedied. And I cannot tell you what difference a really good mattress makes on a bad back and a pocketbook.

For Fifty Cents

My wife’s grandparents were saints. We used to visit them and her aunt quite frequently in the sleepy little farming town of Dassel, Minnesota. On one visit we sat down at the table for a little Fika with Grandpa Ernest and Grandma Elfrida. Grandma Elfrida was a big Swedish Grandmother who moved around slowly and deliberately with great effort and pageantry. Grandpa was a wiry gent filled with energy. Ernest was a retired minister in the Covenant church.

Partway through our visit Aunt Ethel let herself in and immediately displayed the most gigantic bra I have ever seen. It was so large, in fact, that I thought it was a joke bra and had to rethink everything I knew about Aunt Ethel and her Swedish countenance. Everyone in the room was confused by the site, which told me this was no joke. Aunt Ethel had a purpose. And it involved this horrifically enormous bra.

She immediately went over to her sister, Elfrida and said, “Look what I found you at a garage sale for fifty cents!” Although Elfrida was a big woman, surely there was no woman created by God that could fit into this brassiere. We were all shocked that Ethel would ever think her sister was that large of bosom. No one was more unsettled than Elfrida herself. Almost as scandalous, her sister was displaying undergarments in front of her grandson-in-law which was certainly a breach of Scandinavian protocol and conduct. My wife and I anxiously awaited what would happen next.

Very politely, using her many years of diplomatic experience as a minister’s wife, she said, “Ethel, I’m not sure that’s my style.” Personally, I thought that comment was well played. Without missing a beat, and somewhat under her breath in disgust, Ethel replied, “Well, for fifty cents, I’d change my style.” We had to excuse ourselves to the back garden for a huge laugh. Thankfully, they were all deaf, too.

Face & Butt

You are trying to fix something on the honey-do list. But it requires a special tool, like a #1 Philips or a #.5 star bit. You obviously don’t have one that small and using a #2 or larger will strip the screw. So, you head out to the local Hardware Hank and get the tool you need. You walk in the door and you get quizzed about what you bought, how much it was, and if it was really necessary. “I bought a small screwdriver. It was $1.49. And yes, if you want that lamp fixed with the specialized bulb in it you insisted on buying then yes, it’s necessary.” You try to be polite given the fact you could be watching a game or scratching something that really needs it but instead you’ve taken time out of your day off to fix something of hers she never should have purchased anyway. And now I’m getting the third degree?

But, according to the rules, that inquiry only goes one way. Guys, you know what I’m talking about.

Yesterday, my lovely wife was about two hours late getting home. I knew she was shopping. And I knew it involved something to do with color. She finally came home with a large bag containing new towels for our private bathroom. “I’m tired of our bathroom color.” I just repainted it a chocolate brown not all that long ago. “It needs something different.” Why? No one goes in there but us. I poop in there and walk around like I don’t care about what I’m not wearing. Why does it need something different? And how was that decided? What signal precipitated this change? Why didn’t I sense that a new color was needed? What special sensing gland does she have that tells her via magnetic waves enhanced by moon signals that a new accent color is needed in the private bathroom?

Our private bathroom is the place where all the crap towels end up. They are the ones we’ve had since we got married 25 years ago. They are bleached by hair coloring (not me), worn out by God-only-knows what beauty chemical, torn, threadbare and generally not pleasing. Downstairs are really nice towels I’m not allowed to touch. “They’re for company.” You know, the kind of friends that come over for dinner and a bath. All of our friends take baths in their own homes. I live in this one and I’d love to use a nice towel instead of this crap one that was last used to soak up refrigerator drippings.

I can’t buy a $1.49 screwdriver to fix her lamp but she can buy new towels because she’s tired of the colors? Now for the fun part. Can you guess what color the towels are? White. They are white towels. They are white towels with a small brown stripe at one end. And it gets better. Where are they? They are not in the private bathroom probably because they are too nice.

I’ve decided to go out and buy one of those giant towels that say FACE on one end and BUTT on the other. Thankfully, they only come in brown and white.