Thursday, February 17, 2011

Stuff That Could Only Happen to Me.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: you can’t make this sh*t up.

All I wanted to do was sell my light fixtures on Craigslist so I could fund the purchase of fabulous new, more BoyMommy-appropriate lighting.  I figured I’d post an ad which would lead to a drama-free transaction between two consenting adults with differing tastes in lighting, and we’d be on our merry way.

Lo and behold, I found a buyer.  Using my master sleuth skills on the World Wide Internets, I discovered, inadvertently, that they are worth more than I first thought, so I placed the ad on CraigsList.  After a few days with no bites, finally a gentleman said he was, to use his words, "VERY interest" in all three pieces.  I told him I was firm on the price, he agreed, and he prepared to send me a check.  And then it got weird. 

Turns out “Frank” is not local.  He’s REALLY not local.  He’s from a state that I shall not name in order to protect his privacy, but let’s just say it rhymes with Schmichigan.   Therefore he has hired a mover to come pick up the light fixtures for him.  Frank told me he had mailed the check and that I would be required to use the excess funds he had sent to pay the mover he has hired to pick up the light fixtures.  It seemed like a lot of effort to go through, but I am willing to comply, and I expected that the amount would be for $200 or so more than the price of the light fixtures.  When I finally received the cashier’s check in the mail, however, the total was TWICE the price we had settled on.  So he's paying his mover just as much as he's paying me.
Dallas - deep in the heart of Schtexas!

But instead of paying the mover with that money,  I have now been “instructed” to send the remaining funds to a woman whose address indicates she lives in a state we’ll call Schtexas.  Wha?  Now I'm supposed to write a big, fat check to some woman who lives in the heart o' Dixie?

Then I get an email that “instructs” me to please continue correspondence using a different email address because he’s having “problems” with his other account.  And then I am told, and I quote, “You are required to send excess via money gram from any walmart shop or money gram outlet near you, the cost of sending should also be deducted from the excess.”  For the sake of brevity, I will ignore the obvious errors in grammar, mechanics, spelling, and syntax, though it pains me to do so.  I’m also going to ignore Frank’s tone, which I do not appreciate. 

At this point, I’m kicking myself for thinking this transaction was going to be simple, and I’m getting worried that I have gotten myself involved in something shall we say skeevy.

And then came the phone call.

It seems that, in Frank’s humble and unsolicited opinion, I am not conducting “good business.”  Apparently, I can trust Frank.  He told me so.  And if I am trustworthy, why then clearly I don’t have any reason to worry.  Frank wants to know, “why can’t you just complete the task?” 

Really, Frank?  IF that is indeed your name? 

I am done.  I am prepared to tell Hubby, “you were right.”  (You saw it here first, folks.)  Hubby was right.  I should have been content with those f*cking chandeliers and just let them continue existing like enormous, brass, formal eyesores in my otherwise casual home.   I mean, what goes better with Walmart slipcovers and too-small area rugs than fancy Framburg Napoleonic Lighting? 

So I tell Frank that I am not writing a check to Miss Ellie at Southfork, but that I will be happy to return the excess funds to him if he will provide me with an address.  This makes him nervous.  He mumbles something about “family,” reminds me that this is not “good business,” questions me again about “completing the task,” and says that he will get back to me and that I should wait for further instruction.

Here are my thoughts:
1.   One possible scenario: Frank is going to smuggle pounds of cocaine (Liters?  Kilos?  Bricks?  How does one measure cocaine?) in one of those chandeliers.

2.  Frank, who now has my home address, (which he needed for the check,) and my home phone number, (which I provided for purposes of correspondence,) is going to send someone to my home to breaka my kneecaps.

3.  I am going to stand trial for money laundering, tax evasion, drug smuggling, racketeering, etc. in front of Judge Judy, who will not appreciate my biting humor and witty sarcasm. 

4.  I will not do well in prison for several reasons:
  • ALL the beds are close to the door.  [Please refer to BoyMommy's Hotel Room Theory.]
  • I tend to cry when people are mean to me.  I think people in prison are not very nice.
  • I’m quite sure their wine list will be too limited for my liking.
  • I’ve already tried to knit one of those Martha Stewart Jailhouse Ponchos, but it did not go well.
  • I will suffer from performance anxiety when I have an audience to pee, I’ll hold it, and, consequently, I will develop a bladder infection, to which I am already susceptible. 
  • Orange is not my color, and I’d have to wear my flip flops with socks, because I sure-as-hell ain’t wearing open-toed shoes without a fresh pedicure. 

    I leave you with this: should I go missing, tell my family I love them, and check for my body in Schmichigan or Schtexas.  Wink, wink.  Otherwise, I'll be hanging out in the slammer with my new,  above-pictured BFFs.

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    Be nice, kids.