When we get to Lowe’s, Tom is on his lunch break. I’m sure this is no coincidence. Nor that Norm, whom I’ve spoken to by phone, beats a hasty retreat when he sees me wheeling a door his way. Nice try, guys.
The particle board speaks for itself, though, and our money is refunded without (further) hassle. A new door is ordered, rush, at no charge. It’s relatively painless, but has already taken a good chunk out of the day, so rather than head to the house, Joe decides we should finally buy the rest of our insulation.
The good news is that at long last, we received the Lowe’s gift card rebate from the last batch of insulation we bought. The bad news is that the only store in area that’s still carrying that particular insulation, which was so cheap because it’s on closeout, is in West Philly. In what is quite possibly the most ghetto Lowe’s ever.
I went to school in Philly, worked there for five years, and unlike Joe, am not convinced we’ll be carjacked at every red light. But still, we were three white suburbanites, driving after dark—the stuff of newspaper headlines. I think even Google maps, on recognizing the address I punched in, thought oh hell no, and tried to steer us in a different direction.
But we got the insulation, and an extra switchplate, too (also discontinued; I have a bizarre, Midas-like skill in this area, where anything I touch will soon stop production). Another day bites the dust.