Hoop chair, egg chair, ball chair … whatever you want to call it, the irony is, the most comfortable chair I’ve ever sat in was also the biggest pain in my ass. This chair, this one, round, garden chair was perhaps the biggest decorating struggle I’ve encountered since trying to embrace the ruffled bedskirt. The struggle here was real people, due to unforeseen circumstances, Pinterest, jello and a Wandering Jew.
10 years ago I bought a Volvo. I was looking through the fliers most households get once a week – you know the ones – grocery store, dry cleaning, car dealership fliers that appear with your paper. I remember I was looking for Jello pudding on sale because the fella was still here and he happened to be on a Jello kick. I believe this was just after the concentrated cherry juice and before the bee pollen kick. Just for fun, I put the grocery store flier down and flipped through the car dealership one. I was half looking for a car since my Acura had recently been sold off to some shifty looking guy. I have no idea if the guy I originally *bought* the Acura from was shifty looking or not because I never saw him in person on account of his being incarcerated at the time. But I’m gonna assume … also shifty looking.
I have a tendency to do a lot of research on important purchases like cars, cookies and staple guns. But for some reason, when I saw this Volvo in the flier with its glossy wood grain interior, dual clutch transmission and COMPLETELY vacuumed and emptied trunk … I had to buy it immediately. 3 days later I was tooling home in it, head out the window like a dog, WOooOooHOooing all the way home. I figured the fact that the back seats flipped down making the trunk seem twice as big was going to solve any issues with hauling big stuff around a non issue. I was wrong.
I can carry almost anything that’s flat, but if something is wider than Fred Flintstone’s foot, I’m screwed. Enter the egg chair.
So I’m up at my local garden centre looking for two things. A bay laurel plant and a Wandering Jew. I’m in a bit of a rush because I’ve promised Pink Tool Belt I’d meet her at her house at a certain time. By the time I’m supposed to be at her house I’m still running around the store for the 15th time looking for a Wandering Jew (which apparently, true to their name have all wandered off.) And they took the Bay trees with them. So as I’m leaving the store at a brisk but “I don’t want to miss anything” pace I’m stopped dead in my tracks by the egg chair.
May I direct your attention to the on SALE tag.
It was the Volvo all over again. I had to buy it and I had to buy it immediately. But I owned a Volvo, which couldn’t accommodate such a luxuriously proportioned chair. But I had to have it. But it wouldn’t fit in my car. But I had to have it.
This went on and on in my brain until I started to wonder if I was actually experiencing a self induced stroke. I found a salesperson and explained my dilemma, saying I’d be back in exactly one hour with my truck owning sister. Also, I hated the colour of the cushion, could she do something about that? It’s washed out in the photo but the cushion on this chair is really yellow. It’s trying to be off white, but failing miserably. She agreed to find me a grey cushion by the time I got back, we shook on the deal and I was off to Pink Tool Belt’s.
At the appointed time I returned to the store not with Pink Tool Belt, but with my mother for reasons I can’t remember. They both own SUVs so either/or was fine with me. I beelined straight for the chair while Betty wandered off like a plant. I can still feel the anxiety rising up from my toes as I stared at the empty spot on the floor where my chair once was. Halp. HALLLLPPPPPPP. 3 associates came to help me, one of them dragging what looked to be a defibrillator, none of them knowing where the hell my chair was. One was super-helpful though when she informed me it looked like it wasn’t there anymore.
Finally someone clearly in the know and who recognized my anguished cry as the same one that came out of my mouth 2 hours earlier when I realized the chair wouldn’t fit in my car, came to save the day. She said the chair had gone on a photoshoot. My chair was a part of some sexy, high profile photoshoot. I knew I loved that chair.
After about an hour of figuring, planning, and telephone number exchanging they promised to call me once the chair was back the next morning. I explained to them I myself had taken part in many-a-photoshoot and sometimes if I liked something I would buy it there and then from the prop stylist. I didn’t want the same fate to happen with my chair so I begged them to make sure they didn’t let anyone else buy it. Please. They agreed and sent me on my way. For the second time.
I woke up bright and early that next morning, got myself into an outfit I thought the chair would like and sat on the edge of my bed waiting for the phone call. Which phone call you ask? The phone call that never came. Finally around 4 in the afternoon I couldn’t take it anymore and called the store myself.
Me: Where’s my chair?
Them: What chair?
Me: MY CHAIR YOU STUPID *&&^%I@!!# !!!!!!!!!
Them: Hold please.
My chair wasn’t back yet. They didn’t know where it was. Call back tomorrow. Ack.
The call came to me around 2 in the afternoon the next day. The chair was back. I grabbed Pink Tool Belt by the hair and winged her straight into her truck telling her to step on it. MY CHAIR WAS BACKKKKKKK. I stop, tuck and rolled right out of the truck before she even pulled into a parking spot. My arms spread wide, ready for a loving embrace with my long lost chair, I ran to the spot I knew my chair would be. My feet screeched to a halt just about a foot shy of the chair. I blinked. That’s NOT my chair.
The chair I was looking at was darker and pinker and weirder than my chair. It wasn’t my chair. Enter countless sales people who came from every direction, running into the back of the store, the warehouse, all over the place, looking for MY chair. By this time I really had developed symptoms of a stroke and whatever other affliction that might cause you to drool and randomly bark like a dog in public. Things were bad.
After hours of struggling to find the chair we collectively figured out I was insane. It takes a village. The chair that I didn’t think was my chair, was indeed my chair. I just wasn’t remembering it the way it actually was. I certainly don’t remember it being so … pink. It was one Country Sampler away from being a ruffled bed skirt for God’s sake. And the cushion? They did manage to find me a grey one and I have to hand it to them because it might be the only shade of grey in the entire million shade pallet of grey that is unattractive. Sort of a super-light cement grey with an offputting touch of ugly. So now I was looking at the chair which was an ugly colour with an ugly coloured cushion. After hours and I do mean HOURS of debating I finally decided that I couldn’t let my chair go to another home that was going to let it appear in such a state of unfortunate colour choices. I just couldn’t. We’d been through a lot this chair and I.
Wrap ‘er up clerk.
I didn’t even get to the parts of the story where my sister got tangled in a top she was trying on and the store manager asked us what channel our reality show was on.
I know it’s going to be difficult for you to believe but this is just Part 1. Yep. Part 1 of the comfortable hoop chair and how it became a pain in my ass.
You heard me right. My ass gets even more painful in a post to come, courtesy of Pinterest.
Have a good weekend all!