Our cavernous family room presents a lighting challenge. For nearly 18 years, we've lived with the builder's insane idea of decent lighting: two recessed lights above our fireplace illuminating a framed, faded poster from my college-apartment days, and the weak halo cast by a ceiling-fan light fixture.
Early on, my in-laws came to visit and were appalled at my lack of lighting (and possibly décor, though they were too kind to mention that). They insisted on buying some lamps for us, which created twin oases of light on either side of our family room couch.
Lately, though, we've been dragging standing lamps from other areas in our home whenever we want to read, sew on a button, or do any sort of activity that requires eyes in the family room. In exasperation, I got up on a ladder recently and screwed some brighter bulbs into the ceiling fan fixture — and ended up treating myself to a free light show with sound.
That was it. The smell of the burned-out wall switched lingered just long enough for us to decide to improve the economy by getting some real lighting in that room.
I called a reputable store in Baltimore and explained my flair for lighting, which is essentially flashlight-based. The representative told me to make a drawing of the room's dimensions and said a lighting designer would be happy to design a plan that might get us out of the grotto without having to win the Lotto.
I was so excited about this imminent transformation that I took a half day off from work. My husband and I walked into the showroom, where three representatives sat behind a long counter, chatting or looking at computer screens. No one was on the telephone. There were no other customers being waited on. I approached with my detailed drawing in hand and asked if someone could help us with lighting our family room.
"Well, what do you want?" the woman asked.
"We don't really know," I said.
"Maybe some track lighting?" my husband offered.
"We don't do much track lighting anymore," she said disdainfully, as if we had asked for an in-store prefrontal lobotomy. Little did I know that in a few moments, I might actually prefer one to her brand of customer service.
I valiantly tried again, brandishing my drawing. "When I called earlier this week," I said, "a representative told me to bring in a detailed drawing and that a lighting designer would help us."
The woman looked over at the man seated to her left.
"Carl?" she said, not offering much more — because it was clear that everyone behind the counter had heard us.
It was then that Carl — who was not on the phone or helping anyone else — made a vigorous gesture, such as you would see an angry coach make on the sidelines of a critical championship game. Wordlessly, he waved both his hands in front of his chest, indicating perhaps "No Way!" or "Foul!" or even "Get out of my face!" if there is such a call.
The representative was nonplussed; she shrugged and offered some lame options without even looking at our drawing. My husband said, "We'll just take a look around the showroom," which is long-married-person code for "We're out of here." We left the store.
But it left me wondering: On what planet is it appropriate to wave your hands in front of yourself when you don't want to help a customer? As we exited the store, I overheard the women representatives discussing a certain celebrity's weight, while Carl remained fixated on his computer screen, no doubt completing the online application for the next contestant in the reality lighting show, "Illumination Abomination."
Guess what, Carl? You've won!
Janet Gilbert works in Baltimore and lives in Woodstock. Visit her at http://www.janetgilbert.net.