I was wandering around the kitchen in the house, opening the refrigerator from time to time to see if the Food Fairy had visited yet, when my bestie and housemate, Lynne, walked in and made an announcement.
“I’ve bought the wrong-sized lightbulbs for the lamp. I’m going to return them this afternoon.”
Wot?
I turned toward her, incredulous.
“You’re going to get ready, get in the car, and drive to the supermarket to return a pack of four lightbulbs?” I said, reeling at the news.
“Yes, Vicki,” she replied, in that voice that invited no argument. “I can’t use them, so I’ll just take them back. I’ve got the receipt.”
Two things immediately struck me about this radical thinking: a) She was willing to go to some bother over a very small thing; and b) She hadn’t lost the receipt since purchasing the bulbs that very morning. I’ve walked from the cash register at A. L. Thompson’s to the security guard standing like Cerberus at the exit – ready to take a red marker to my proof of purchase – and I’ve lingered there for five minutes, patting every pocket, checking every nook and cranny of my purse, trying to find my blasted receipt.
Inevitably, of course, it’s in my shopping bag, but that is always the last place I check. The idea of that small slip of paper making it home, ready, if necessary, to do its duty, was a foreign concept to me.
About three weeks ago, I paid good money to finally find out what my blood type was. I got an official paper giving the result, and when I went to show it to Lynne later that same night, could I find it? Expired charity raffle tickets, old sweet wrappers, used boarding passes … they were all easily within reach. But anything important? Ha!
Anyway, I’m going off-topic as usual. Because here’s the thing: It’s people like Lynne who are truly wise with their money. There’s no chaff in her life. If she buys the wrong thing, she’ll return it or fix it. Many’s the time she’s bought trousers that are too long for her, and she’ll go out of her way to get them professionally hemmed. Or, if a top is baggy in the wrong place, she’s off to the seamstress to get it taken in.
I know! Absolutely crackers! Am I the only one who either resigns herself to tripping over trouser legs or staples them/safety pins them at the bottom? And that top that makes my middle look like a watermelon? Into the closet it goes, never to see the light of day again.
You may question what I said. Is Lynne really being wise with money? But then, if she spends a little more, she now has a useful, wearable item.
I don’t subscribe to such obvious logic.
Keen as I am to keep this piece of information to myself, I’ll admit it for the good of this column: I have a box of unused, brand new bathroom lights, somewhere in the house.
When we first moved into this property, we wanted to have a few renovations done. That included changing out two of the bathroom vanities, along with the mirrors and lights above them. As I’m the kind of person to eyeball any measurement (which is mercifully why I never pursued a career as a surgeon), I figured I had a pretty good idea of what illumination was needed above the mirror, and the space it would occupy. Sans tape measure, I headed to a local lighting emporium and picked out a design and colour I liked. It was a set of three equidistant, connected lamps in matte black that hung down in a sort of tulip style (what am I, a home decorator?) and would, I fancy, set the perfect ambience in that most private of rooms.
Well, I’m sure you can guess what happened next. The ‘tulips’ – when mounted by my handyman – in comparison to the delicate mirror, suddenly looked liked I’d swiped them from Jurassic Park. They completely dominated their space and overhung the mirror to such an extent, that a tall person trying to see their reflection, might have to duck down slightly to get the full effect. Beyond that, anything stronger than 15-watt bulbs implied an imminent alien abduction of the sink.
“We could try turning them the other way, so they’re facing the ceiling,” said the electrician, not sounding at all sold on the idea, even as he suggested it.
Not keen to give up and have to buy something else, I asked him to give it a go.
Absolutely not. They immediately looked like a terrible mistake, pointing up like that, and when we switched the lights on, the effect was downright unsettling. All that was missing was a poltergeist in the shower.
Now, had I been Lynne, I would have got them down, carefully boxed them up again – nice and neat – with all attachments and screws intact, and taken them, with their receipt, which I would have plucked from the Receipt Drawer, back to the place of purchase. At best, I’d get my money back, maybe with a restocking fee deducted, or at worst, I’d get a credit that I could use on lights that would work.
But, of course, I didn’t. I couldn’t find the receipt and I was hungry and I was sleepy and I needed to get some other things done.
That was five years ago.
You see, I am precisely the kind of person over whom the subscription services rub their hands together with glee. Maybe I’ve needed a document scanner app, or I’ve wanted to read a particular magazine article that requires signing up for a free trial. I often resist the temptation, but I’ve still succumbed enough times that I should sit down and have a word with myself. Because, when you sign up for that free trial, you have to give them some form of payment method in case you decide to subscribe after. And, of course, the onus is on you to cancel before that kicks in. Aye, there’s the rub.
If I’m not driving 15 minutes to return or exchange a set of bathroom lights, do you really think I’m going to keep track of subscriptions run amok? I got Broadway HD so I could watch a particular play or musical on the TV at home, and never cancelled. As I wrote this, I thought, “Right, you never use it, let’s make a change, starting now!” But then I logged in to get to my account, and saw that they have the revival of ‘An American in Paris’ and Ian McKellen’s ‘King Lear’, not to mention ‘Titanic the Musical’. Speaking of sinking ships, I have yet to unsubscribe.
When we look at these purchases separately, they really don’t seem like that much money. A few dollars here, a few dollars there … but, of course, they add up over time.
The unused lights, the watermelon midriff blouse, the stilt-walker’s trousers … I need to be better at returning items and unsubscribing from the Duolingo apps of this world. One year of religiously practising French, and all I can remember are the words for ‘cat’ and ‘dog’.
I should instead spend my money on a bracelet with WWLD printed on it. What Would Lynne Do? No returns necessary.
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