I’ve not purchased any furniture in a long time — so long I don’t even want to think about it. After all, who needs furniture? Once you buy it, it lasts forever, except maybe an upholstered piece or two, but even that can be recovered and made like new.

I’ve been thinking about my home lately. It is always dangerous when a woman thinks about her home. We are sitting scrunched up in a small bedroom-turned-office with computers and a TV, while in the front of the house there is a large living room that is hardly touched at all.

It just doesn’t make sense. We need to utilize our space differently and start taking advantage of the space we have instead of saving it — what are we saving it for? Company? Company doesn’t have to live here, but I do and my elbows are tired of bumping into stuff.

We need some new furniture, something that looks decent instead of the make-do mess that is good enough for the office but not for the living room. We need something for the TV and all the junk that goes with it. We can move the TV to the living room to utilize our space, but we can’t have that tacky TV in the living room in its current black, plastic glory.

It’s time to go shopping.

Now, just walk in a furniture store and look as if you have come to spend money and the sales people are on you like vultures on carrion. “What are you looking for today?” “Let me show you this one.” “Did you see that one over there?”

When I shopped for furniture back in the dark ages, life was much simpler. Nowadays a TV needs a media center with components, expandable bridges, and glass shelves. I had no idea of the sort of stuff that is on the market.

We are led around the cavernous store in a daze. I want everything I see and each item is prettier, and more expensive, than the last. But, eventually, everything begins to look the same and it all sort of blends together in one giant wall unit. I can’t remember what I saw, where I saw it, how much it cost, what size it was, or anything else — even though I thought I was being smart by writing information down.

We wander around furniture stores that are all the same; looking at furniture that is all the same, while smiling salespeople that are all the same follow us sniffing. This item is sort of what we want, and that one is better but not exactly it either. That one is too expensive and we might be able to afford that one, but it is not the right size.

“How do you get out of here? I need time to think.” Our only chance is when a young couple that looks newlywed walks in the door. “I think I’m being paged,” says the salesperson, as he excuses himself. “Here, take my card!”

I’m beginning to wonder if rearranging the house is such a good idea after all. We may be cramped and tacky, but at least we don’t have to spend all our free time on furniture store expeditions. My head hurts, my knees ache, and I need to go to the bathroom.

Believe it or not, there are still some other stores that my honey wants to look at before we buy as if I’m not confused enough already. Maybe sooner or later we will find something that is the right style, right price, right wood, and right size.

In the meantime, my cramped little office is becoming smaller and smaller every day. I’m beginning to hallucinate that I’m being stalked by a furniture salesman with a remote control, which changes furniture from one style to another, one size to another, and one item to another.

If we could only find the remote button that lowers the price, we might be able to buy.

Copyright 2006 Sheila Moss