It’s October in Indiana, which means today is 85 degrees and, thus, my Hubs believes it’s the perfect time to shop for a snowblower.
Before they’re all gone.
Because our spines and knees require an upgrade for some of our equipment. Our drive is steep, and the previous blower, well, blew—but not so much the snow.
We stop by the first home improvement store. They have one box of a put-it-together-yourself kit. It’s too small, and I can imagine the blades flying off and slicing into oncoming traffic if we didn’t tighten everything down just right.
The second store has two giant models with price tags the size of my head, displaying multiple digits. My head can’t even.
One more stop has nothing on the floor yet because it’s October and 85 degrees.
We arrive at the big-box home improvement store—our last option before he buys one sight-unseen online.
Hubs and I meander to the middle main aisle, where the seasonal needs are on display. Needs include large skeletons that would need a separate storage shed in the off-season, grills on clearance, and a giant green, tinsel-covered Grinch.
I think I spy Snoopy, too, but I didn’t care to note if he was riding a pumpkin or dressed as Santa. Maybe I saw both versions???
I’m getting hungry.
Anyway, amid this collision of seasons were two snowblowers.
The Hubs starts messing with the first one. Pushing things. Cranking things. Swiveling things. “This is okay.”
He moves to the second one, and it has a joystick.
A. Joystick.
His face lights up and a grin bigger than the tinseled Grinch’s spreads from cheek to cheek. He begins rambling about all the wonderful benefits of this particular kind of snow blower.
I’m like, “That’s it then. That one, let’s get it and go.” Home improvement stores aren't my favorite places to be, and I think I’ve done a fairly decent job hanging in there for this project.
But my wherewithal is fading. Italian is next, and Alfredo is calling.
We examine the benefits listed on the display sign next to this machine.
We examine the price and discover this is on sale now. In 85 degrees.
By this time, we’ve been cheered by strangers walking this main aisle for getting ahead of things, we’ve been jeered by strangers telling us we’re jinxing the region for even thinking of snow, and we’ve drawn the attention of two employees—the Gal who works in this area and the supervisor-ish Young Guy who has more knowledge about Hubs’s specific questions.
Young Guy scans the barcode on the sign to pull up the specs. “Oh. This is an error.” Turns out that sale price isn’t the sale price at all. A $300 mistake that he will reluctantly honor because “someone” wasn’t paying attention. Turns out none of the snowblower signs were correct.
We’re the only ones within a five-county radius to be shopping for snowblowers in 85 degrees, so the error had gone unnoticed.
He yanks the sticker off the sign and hands it to the Gal. “We don’t have any in stock,” he says dryly. “It’ll have to be ordered.”
“But I really wanted to use it tonight.” I say this with a straight face, expecting a laugh.
Young Guy pauses, wheels turning.
The Gal catches on quicker and giggles.
I smile.
Young Guy smiles, but he’s not too happy that I made him think about snowblowing in this heat.
The Gal takes us to her computer station. The website won't let her order our mistakenly priced blower. “The vendor won’t even light up.” I don’t know how to light up a vendor, but I’m getting weary of this project now.
The Gal calls Manager Lady. This ends up with three more employees trying to figure out this conundrum, plus calls to other big-box stores that do have the blower in stock, but they won’t sell it to us at the mistake price because it wasn’t their mistake to stick a sale sign on a blower that doesn’t exist.
This particular store we’re standing in has this blower and will honor the price. But, alas, it’s the display model, so they can’t sell it to us.
And they can’t seem to order any, either.
I glance at Hubs, who’s still drooling over the joystick and doing that nervous tic thing with his jaw. He’s imagining the winter-wonderland-to-come with a sub-par blower and a bad back.
I can’t even.
“Look. Why don’t you sell us that one, which, according to every one of you, shouldn‘t have been on display yet anyway. Then when your shipment of blowers comes in, you put one of THOSE on display and everything is right with the world.”
“We can’t do that,” Manager Lady says.
“You can’t sell it to anyone?”
“It’s the display model.”
“Of a model you can’t sell because you don’t have any.”
“Right.”
Grrr.
Look, Lady. You HAVE this one.
It’s put together nicely, so the blades won’t fall off.
It has all the specs aging spines and knees need for a steep driveway.
It has a JOYSTICK!
And it’s right here. In the store. Right now.
And the Hubs made a decision, and YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT STARTING THIS PROCESS OVER WILL BE LIKE IF WE HAVE TO DECIDE THINGS ALL OVER AGAIN.
I WANT ALFREDO.
I do not say out loud any of that, although my brain was very loud. I sorta felt sorry for her because I knew she’d be a character in the blog this week. I don’t mention this to her, either.
Eventually, they agree to honor the price if we keep an eye on the website for the shipment. We are to return to the store with the offending sticker and the business card of The Gal who, according to Manager Lady, has the best chance of remembering us.
I look at The Gal and say, “Remember I’m the one that wanted to blow snow in October.” She laughs. I hope that seals us.
If not, I shall show her this blog post and jog her memory.
You know what store doesn’t have display models?
Mine!
A little shameless self-promotion here, so bear with me.
My books are fully assembled. Plenty to go around. They never go out of season. The price tags are NOT as big as your head. You can enjoy them and Alfredo AT THE SAME TIME and avoid the hangry.
And though they don’t have joysticks, they could be a source of joy, even if you have a bad back and aging knees.
And not a single display model.
Check them out here: bapaul.com
