Tomorrow, being Sunday, we are scheduled to attend the annual Home and Garden Show.
I seriously don't know why we go. The fees for parking and admittance are egregious, and paying them inspires sensations not unlike being anally raped with a pineapple.
Without the benefit of lube.
And if we forego the expense of parking, we are required to take public transit (better known as the Loser Cruiser), where I invariably end up separated from the Fragrant Missus, and seated next to someone inflicted with mental illness/homelessness who has recently shat their pants. And most of my brief, but terrifying , trip is spent avoiding the gaze of the Aboriginal/adolescent/douchebag (pick one, or all three), who wants me to pay his/her fare. Or else.
I hate to sound like an elitist, but there are some very compelling reasons why people resist the allure of public transit. Especially in this neighbourhood, it is far outdistanced by the allure of staying alive.
Once inside the Home and Garden Show, however, all we do is walk around a crowded trade hall for hours, suppressing the urge to cock punch the yuppies who insist on taking their crotch fruit and blocking the aisles with strollers that rival Hummers in size, while watching a demonstration of the latest rubber broom. We shuffle through the halls, smelling popcorn and mini doughnuts, and collecting a small library of pamphlets that we are going to recycle the moment we get home, even if we climbed over nineteen yuppie bitches with expensive haircuts and torn designer jeans tucked into knee-high suede boots to get them.
Ultimately, we sigh about how we can't afford a hot tub while simultaneously thanking the gods that we don't have one to share with people who would pee in it, or, just as bad, expect to share it naked.
I don't understand the appeal of the Home and Garden Show, to be honest. It is expensive, stuffy, crowded, always a potential scene for a richly deserved homicide, and a constant reminder that, compared to a lot of others there, we're poor. We never end up being able to afford doing anything to the house that was even remotely inspired by something we saw at the Home and Garden Show. We are generally confined to sewing new curtains and throwing paint at the walls. Once a year, the Fragrant Missus rearranges the living room furniture. Hardly revolutionary stuff requiring the expert opinions of vendors at the Home and Garden Show.
Yet, every time it rolls into town, we get as excited as a couple of teenaged girls with backstage passes to a Justin Bieber show. I don't know why this is. Is it the potential ("Oooh! This time, were gonna get that skylight in!")? Is it the fantasy ("Man, if I had the money, I'd totally install that rainfall shower with the colour therapy lights--IN MY BACK YARD!!!")? Is it the new and innovative technology ("PLASTIC LAWN?! Where do I fuckin' sign?")?
I dunno. I think it's the doughnuts.
I seriously don't know why we go. The fees for parking and admittance are egregious, and paying them inspires sensations not unlike being anally raped with a pineapple.
Without the benefit of lube.
And if we forego the expense of parking, we are required to take public transit (better known as the Loser Cruiser), where I invariably end up separated from the Fragrant Missus, and seated next to someone inflicted with mental illness/homelessness who has recently shat their pants. And most of my brief, but terrifying , trip is spent avoiding the gaze of the Aboriginal/adolescent/douchebag (pick one, or all three), who wants me to pay his/her fare. Or else.
I hate to sound like an elitist, but there are some very compelling reasons why people resist the allure of public transit. Especially in this neighbourhood, it is far outdistanced by the allure of staying alive.
Once inside the Home and Garden Show, however, all we do is walk around a crowded trade hall for hours, suppressing the urge to cock punch the yuppies who insist on taking their crotch fruit and blocking the aisles with strollers that rival Hummers in size, while watching a demonstration of the latest rubber broom. We shuffle through the halls, smelling popcorn and mini doughnuts, and collecting a small library of pamphlets that we are going to recycle the moment we get home, even if we climbed over nineteen yuppie bitches with expensive haircuts and torn designer jeans tucked into knee-high suede boots to get them.
Ultimately, we sigh about how we can't afford a hot tub while simultaneously thanking the gods that we don't have one to share with people who would pee in it, or, just as bad, expect to share it naked.
I don't understand the appeal of the Home and Garden Show, to be honest. It is expensive, stuffy, crowded, always a potential scene for a richly deserved homicide, and a constant reminder that, compared to a lot of others there, we're poor. We never end up being able to afford doing anything to the house that was even remotely inspired by something we saw at the Home and Garden Show. We are generally confined to sewing new curtains and throwing paint at the walls. Once a year, the Fragrant Missus rearranges the living room furniture. Hardly revolutionary stuff requiring the expert opinions of vendors at the Home and Garden Show.
Yet, every time it rolls into town, we get as excited as a couple of teenaged girls with backstage passes to a Justin Bieber show. I don't know why this is. Is it the potential ("Oooh! This time, were gonna get that skylight in!")? Is it the fantasy ("Man, if I had the money, I'd totally install that rainfall shower with the colour therapy lights--IN MY BACK YARD!!!")? Is it the new and innovative technology ("PLASTIC LAWN?! Where do I fuckin' sign?")?
I dunno. I think it's the doughnuts.
5 comments:
We go, sometimes. We went a few weeks ago, but we were on a mission. Landscape companies, and evestroughing companies. That's it. Linda whipped me up and down the aisles at a merciless pace, since I've been well trained as a bearer of burdens, and breaking through a crowd. I didn't even get a chance to watch the performance art that are the cleaning supplies salesmen. Now we are enduring the hell of estimates.
Overome your hormonal similarities to teenaged girls thinking of the Bieber bait. (He's such a little worm.) Reject the call of the show! Stay home with a nice cup of tea.
We need the soffits and fasciae replaced, so we actually had a purpose for going this time, too. And, as you indicated, Keith, now begins Estimate Hell.
Happily, no-one died at the Home Show today. An ambulance was summoned, but I had nothing to do with it (this time).
I hate Justin Bieber with a hot, hot heat.
This is the Linda who is Keith's better half - I want to set the record straight. It was Keith who marched us up & down the aisles in the most efficient manner (AND he led the break to outside to check out the food trucks which were there as a pleasant alternative to the mini doughnuts & other rancid grease items for sale). I panted in his wake, barely managing to restrain him from leaving the building without the all important re-entry stamp so we were not dinged twice for an entry fee.
As for estimate hell, I agree it isn't much fun but - we've actually had companies give us estimates & arrive WHEN THEY SAID THEY WOULD this time around. Usually you can't get anyone to come by without rescheduling several times & as for getting more than one company to actually come by - I am keeping my eye out for the Second Coming, it can't be far off when this happens....
Linda,
Welcome to the blog! It is delight to see you here, as it is to see you in person when it happens.
It is amusing that you mentioned the Second Coming in your comment, because I was thinking very similar sentiments as I read it. We will know the End Times are truly upon us if we have similarly serendipitous experiences with our estimates.
Anne - well, I have to say I'm not sure if I should be happy about the fact we are getting call backs & quotes, or worry that the apocalypse is about to occur. I am currently playing telephone tag with one landscaper who wants to quote when our back yard is completely snow free, to provide an accurate estimate. Given our back yard might still have some snow in it as late as June & that we are hoping to be able to have the work done in May (delusional I know but the voices say it can be done) I'm not willing to wait another two or more months to get a 3rd quote before making a decision. So I left a message with said landscaper saying up to them to show up today or not; we are moving forward with or without their input.
Maybe I'm being a total baguette here but the calls have irked me; I have gotten the impression of a prima donna personality who needs to have a very firm leash from the get go. No doubt 'Joey' is thinking I sound like the potential client from hell who would make his life a total misery if he got/took on the job. Best if we don't meet - I want to enjoy the backyard for decades, not have the cops digging it up to find out where I buried the body:)
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