One night, as I lay in bed…okay, actually, technically, I think it was one morning. But it was still dark. Because it’s frigging winter and the sun is being coquettish. So either it was night time or early morning, and I was lying in bed, and His Nibs was lying beside me, and please forgive my use of ‘lay’ and ‘lying’, as I’m sure I’ve used them incorrectly; it doesn’t matter how many times I learn which is transitive and which is intransitive, I still get them messed up. It was chilly, because I keep our house just barely above the temperature where a little crackle of ice forms across the water in the terlet bowl at night, and His Nibs said, “it’s cold in here.”
And I said, “I’ve been thinking of getting one of those electric fireplaces for our bedroom.”
And His Nibs said, “…that’s an interesting idea.”
And I said, “Note I did not ask you whether you thought it was a Good Plan.”
And then we went to sleep. Or else we got up.
Enter yesterday. Probably one or two days after the above noted dialogue took place. I checked out some websites and looked at the different kinds of electric fireplaces (which are really just glorified space heaters with fancy graphics) and decided that I was going to buy one.
I should explain how I shop.
I should also explain that I hate shopping with the burning rage of a thousand angry suns. Coquettish or not.
When I shop, I decide what I want, and then I go get it. I don’t fart around and browse and dilly-dally and ooh and aah over things. Even when I go to Costco (one of the shops into which I am not permitted without a grown-up), I don’t “browse”. I just go get my cheese (and floor mat, and yoga pants, and artichoke hearts, and fireproof safe, and office chair, and bedroom suite, and baking soda), put it in the trolley, and I leave. His Nibs ends up in the queue, scratching his head and saying ‘I don’t remember putting this in here…’.
So I decided which electric fireplace I wanted, and I went to Costco. WITHOUT A GROWN-UP. But they did not have my fireplace. I left Costco, disheartened, and without a karaoke machine (did I mention I’m also an impulse shopper? Because I am. Ask Mr. Tall about the As Seen On TV shopping day sometime). And I went to Rona, which is Canadian, which makes me happy. I did not find the fireplace I wanted, but I found one that I thought was EVEN BETTER. So I asked a strapping young lad (who is in contention to be my new cabana boy, I’ll have you know) to hold the trolley while I lifted it on. Instead, the young lad suggested *I* hold the trolley while *he* lifted it on, and, forgive me gentle reader, but I let him. I did not exercise my right to do equal work. I just stood there and watched him serve me. It was good. It was *very* good.
At the checkout queue. I have two (2) items. To Wit: One (1) electric fireplace; One (1) chain for The Nipper’s light.
The fellow at the checkout looks at the trolley and says, “well. That’s a big box.”
To which I reply, “That’s a little forward. Not to mention a huge assumption, considering we haven’t even met.”
The fellow at the checkout turned this colour:
He sputtered and spit and didn’t know where to look. I said, “the barcode is at the bottom of my enormous box. You’ll have to go down to scan it.”
After the scanning was done, he said, in a slightly squeaky voice, “this has a remote control. I guess you’ll be using that, huh?”
I replied, “No, I think I’ll let Mr. Poopypants have the remote control, since I’m always hotter than he is.”
The checkout fellow looked at me with tears in his eyes.
I said, “Everything we say has to be dirty when you open our conversation with ‘that’s a big box you have’. It’s one of the seven rules of conversation. I hope you have enjoyed our exchange as much as I have. I wonder if you have a strapping young cabana boy I could borrow to help me manoeuvre my enormous box into my van.”
A *second* strapping young fellow obliged.
And that is how I got fire in my bedroom.