A text arrived saying a dress I ordered online had been delivered to our front porch. And so it had, in a large and heavy box.
I lugged it inside, heaved it onto the kitchen counter, opened the box and pulled out another box with a picture of a griddle on it. It was a large cast iron griddle, double burner — the griddle of a grandma’s dreams. The picture on the box indicated it could easily handle eight pancakes at a time.
Perhaps the text about the delivery of the dress had been in error. Perhaps one of the kids sent a griddle as a gift — you know, a gift that says, “Keep feeding us, keep standing at the stove, keep those pancakes coming and we’ll keep coming over.”
I texted each of them and the response was the same, “No, we didn’t send a griddle — but when will you be making pancakes?”
There was no gift card, no note, no invoice, no receipt or paperwork of any kind.
Next came an email saying the dress had been delivered. It included a picture of the box left on the porch and a picture of the dress that was theoretically inside the box. But there was a griddle in the box, not a dress.
I don’t have shoes to wear with a griddle.
Furthermore, a griddle does not provide adequate coverage. Oh sure, I could see some young starlet on the rise trying to wear a griddle. But it’s not me. Not my size, not my color, not my cast-iron surface.
Yet, the griddle began growing on me. Literally. My metabolism is now so slow that I gain weight just thinking about food. Even leafing through cookbooks is high-risk. Pictures add pounds.
The griddle would be great for breakfast for a crowd … bacon … French toast.
Truthfully, the griddle had more possibilities than the dress … Philly cheesesteak sandwiches … quesadillas.
With all this thinking about food, should the dress ever arrive, it probably wouldn’t even fit.
I was now on the fence about trying to straighten out the mess. Initiating a return could mean a trip to the store without any paperwork and subsequently being charged, arrested and hauled away for theft. (Like that happens anymore.) My metabolism may have slowed, but my imagination remains in overdrive.
I checked the price of the griddle online. The dress had been more expensive. It would not be an even swap, even if they threw in rib-eyes, fresh-catch and pork chops to sizzle on the griddle.
I hauled the griddle to the store and explained the situation to a clerk. Without batting an eye, she said this happens frequently, credited me for the dress and asked if I wanted to reorder it.
I said no thanks.
“The griddle is on sale,” she said.
Mind reader.
Lori Borgman is a columnist, author and speaker. Reach her at [email protected].
