You know that chair that I was so excited about on Craigslist? The one I was picking up this weekend?
Well, let me give you a little run-down of what happened.
Saturday: I rush Marc around and make him stop cleaning/polishing the metal angle for the kitchen to load up a grumpy, hungry Franca in the truck and go drive to pick up my rocker. We get there. I knock. I knock again. And again. No one answers. I'm annoyed, Marc is annoyed, Franca is eerily happy. I think she knew what was coming. My baby has schadenfreude. I check my email on my phone. Yup. "1pm Sunday" not "1pm Saturday". Whoopsa. Marc, being the good husband that he is, didn't give me a hard time at all.
Sunday: I rush Marc around and make him stop cleaning/polishing the metal angle for the kitchen to *wake up* and then load up a grumpy, hungry Franca in the truck and go drive to pick up my rocker. We get there. I knock. A guy answers who has no idea why I'm there. Then he remembers. Then he tells me the craigslist seller just had to put her dog down today. He has no idea what chair I am referring to. Then he remembers. Then he leads us into the basement to get it. (I'm annoyed, why are you storing an upholstered chair in your basement?) The chair is buried under several other chairs, fabrics, car parts. Again, Franca is eerily happy in the basement. Weirdo.
He digs the chair out. I say, 'ok, does it rock?' (It didn't look like it did.) He lifts up the skirt and there are 4 solid legs. This is chair does not rock.
I am annoyed. Marc is annoyed. Franca is annoyed that we are leaving the basement.
We get into the truck. I check my email. It says:
"I was wondering if you still had this chair for sale and if it rocks?
For the rest of the day, Marc was claiming that everything in sight "rocked".
Franca's yogurt: "Rocks."
My shoes: "Rock."