That’s Why It’s Called A Reservation


I’m mad.  That might be too strong.  I’m frustrated.  Not strong enough.  I’m pissed.

That’s it.

Let me share the source of my frustration.  (Maybe that was right after all — saying “let me share the source of my piss” just doesn’t sound right.)

I decided I wanted to buy a reasonably priced (that is for my husband), small (also for my husband) chest to put  on the landing at the top of our stairs.  I had been looking for one for some time, but hadn’t found one that was just right.  Then, the other day, there it was,  in the window of a nationally known retailer that shall remain nameless.  Oh, all right.  I know you really want to know.  It was Pier One.

The chest is perfect.  Right size, right price, right color.  I even like it.  Dare I say it?  I actually think I am in love!

Anyway, there I am, dream chest before me.  Of course, I have the kids with me and I am driving my convertible VW Beetle.  Not the time or circumstance in which to buy a chest, a dream one or not.

I have come across this dream chest a few days before my kids go back to school.  I am occupied with other things.  I do not manage to get my chest for a few days.

School starts.  Yeah!  I have time to  discover that Pier One (since we are naming names) has a wonderful and handy new program whereby you can pick out things online (say, for example, your dream chest) and then pick them up in the store.  How miraculous!

What do you know?  There is my lovely dream chest online, and, of the stores in my area, there is only one that has it in stock.  And it is at the store nearest me!  Hallelujah!  And, dream of all dreams, it has gone on clearance!  Further price reduction!  I reserve my own special dream chest.  We are meant for each other and I am happy.

Now, a few logistical issues arise.  I still cannot pick up my chest in my Buggie.  We also have a Suburban, but one of my college-age stepsons calls, and he has need of  it.  He must be put off, however, because I need it to pick up my dream chest.

The second day of school, the sun rises and I awake, anticipating the perfection that will be my landing, once I have my chest of dreams.  Every time I walk by its spot, I picture it there, and think about how happy we will be together.

I clear out the Suburban (because its main purpose is to serve as supplementary storage), and I am off to Pier One, all anticipation and exhilaration.

It is like the predictable plot of the Victorian melodrama.  I don’t need to recount every step.  You already know what I find when I get to the store.

They have already sold my dream chest to another.

But really, they assure me, I did not want that one.  It was scratched and damaged, and I am far better off to be without it.  It would have only brought me grief and pain.

They can, however, introduce me to a new dream.  And they will use their new online system to put it on hold for me.  In Fremont.  Which is 45 minutes away.

I will let you know how that one turns out.   But I am no longer in love.


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