adventures at the home despot

When we got of the car in the parking lot of the home depot, Scott was carrying the mysterious red bucket, and Polly and I were each carrying an overhead fan. It was time for my sister and brother-in-law's annual Return Crap We Didn't Use in the Project Day.

I figured they'd be getting back at least a hundred bucks, what with the fans and whatever was in the bucket. Not bad, considering how many people just throw out the 79 cent items they don't use in a project. But Polly and Scott are consummate savers (and mortgage holders in a risky economy). Money is money, whether it's in your pocket or in a red bucket in the basement.

We got in the return line inside the orange-aproned mecca and within five minutes, Scott was plunking the bucket down on the counter. Plumbing joint after plumbing joint appeared, like clowns out of a car. Except considerably more slowly. And less excitingly. Each item had to be scanned and placed in the appropriate departmental tub before we could progress. The line grew and grew behind us.

At first, it was funny how much stuff was coming out of the bucket. Eventually Scott started pulling out pairs, trios and sextets, and the clerk would ring it in once, three times, six times. And Scott would run to the plumbing bin and toss them in. The system was smooth and as efficient as things in a home depot are ever going to be.

But the returns line was six people long, and we hadn't even gotten to the screws or linoleum tiles yet.

"Gee," I said to Polly, really loudly, "I'm sure glad we got in line before that jerk with all the stuff." She fell down laughing, but the rest of the line didn't even crack a smile. I gave them a break, though, because it was Home Depot, and, honestly, I hate that place.

Too much orange.

Anyway, at the end of the deal, all because of one piece of stair nosing (found in the flooring department, I believe) that was older than the 90 days you're allowed to return things without a receipt, the computer wouldn't return the balance to Scott's credit card. He had to take it as a store credit.

Oh, did I mention how much? $535.

We walked out to the parking lot with an empty bucket, a REALLY long paper receipt, and a bounce in Scott's step. After closer examination, however, he discovered that they had only received $50 apiece for the fans, not the $90 they paid for them originally. (I blame the stair nosing.)

Scott headed back into the store, and because the manager was twelve years old (and desperate to go to the sale at Old Navy next door -- which she really shouldn't have been so excited about because I saw it the day before and it was just full of crap), she just reissued the credit for the fans onto Scott's credit card. In full. All over again.

Scott walked out with another $180.

The despot, all of a sudden, seemed considerably less tyrannical. No less orange, no more helpful, but it may have just moved up one (teensy tiny) notch in my opinion. Now it hangs out in the same place as root canal and Sarah Palin.