I don't want to feel stabby. I just want a ceiling fan.

Maturity is leaving when you start to feel stabby, not waiting to be escorted out for acting that way.

I know. Quality thoughts like that must be Confucius, but I actually get credit for it. Well, it wasn't all me. The sales jerk clerk at a nationally-known home improvement store inspired the revelation.

Summer is coming and my daughter's room stays warmer than any other room in the house. She's got a cute, girly ceiling fan in a room that is massive. She needs a bigger fan.

The one in my room is perfect. It's got large "palm leaf" blades and on the slowest setting, you don't even feel a breeze -- just nice, cold air. So, I went to buy another one.

They have the fan with polished pewter finish and the light kit in rubbed bronze. If you haven't looked at finishes yet, that means the fan has shiny silverish metal trims and the light kit looks like dark rusty stuff. Call me crazy, but for $200 I want my light kit and fan to match.

The associate is easy to find. He's helping a high-maintenance middle aged woman who demands that they disassemble a displayed fan for her to take to her new home site right now. Because "the guy who installs fans is only going to be there today." Around my house, we call that guy Daddy or Jim. And he does it for free because it will cut the cost of our electric bill and keep the kiddo and me happy.

The guy called a manager who insisted they could find one at a nearby store about 20 minutes away, but that wasn't good enough. High-maintenance Lady would rather wait for them to take the fan down there. The manager was apparently trying to determine their policy on such matters.

I'd listened to enough, but stood patiently waiting for my turn to ask my simple question. As the associate and the woman stood silently waiting for the manager to return, I approached the clerk to ask my quick question. He held up a finger and said, "One minute. I'm with someone else right now."

Forget that he was standing beside her not saying a word. Forget that I'd waited for about 10 minutes without so much as an acknowledgment. Forget that I wanted to show him a finger but didn't because I didn't want to explain its meaning to my kid. So, I waited.

Finally, the manager returns and the clerk walks over to me and says, "Now, what do you need?"

I could have been rude, but I was just happy to get some help. I was going to have everything at home when Jim returned this weekend so he could get it installed. In my own little way, I was doing home improvement even though it meant someone else had to do the actual work.

"Do you have the fan and a light kit in the same finish?" I asked. He looked appalled. Or disgusted. Thinking that something must have come across wrong,  I quickly explained. "The fan's finish is polished pewter but the light kit's finish is rubbed bronze. I'd just like them to match."

He says to me, "You have to have THIIIS (points to light kit) to go HEEEERE (points to fan box)."

Really?

Apparently me standing there silent meant I didn't understand, so he helped me out with further details. "THIIIS (points to the light kit) goes HEEEERE (points to exact location on the fan box).

So I figure maybe he'll understand my question if I speak his language: "I just want one of THIIIS (point to light kit) with a finish that matches this HEEEERE (point to fan box). Do you have that?"

I figured I'd get an apology. Surely he would realize how condescending he'd sounded and want to make nicey. Instead, he looked at me and said...

"If I had that on sale, I'd tell you."

And that's when I realized I had my revelation. AND that's why I'm driving 50 miles more today to buy the exact fan somewhere else.