“Large canvas in antique frame,” the caption read on the Facebook Marketplace post that caught my eye last week as I scrolled mindlessly through my phone. Intrigued, I poked the button to message the seller, “Is this item still available?”

Little did I know, my innocent inquiry was the opening salvo in a war of wits, wagers, wallets and willpower that would rage for three days.

Initially, my interest in the item was nothing more than casual curiosity, like online window shopping. The canvas was a print of an original painting depicting a mother and two young daughters on a frothy seashore. “Huh,” I thought, zooming in on the photo, “I’m a mother with two daughters.” I’d spied the lure.

The beach scene was in shades of teal and white. “Matches our bedspread,” I mumbled, envisioning the piece adorning the primary bedroom’s blank north wall, giving the space a refreshing coastal vibe. I’d nibbled the bait.

The price seemed high, so I made a slightly lower offer, and the seller accepted. “Not a bad deal for a large antique frame,” I thought, proud of myself for driving a hard bargain. The hook was firmly implanted into my fleshy cheek. I’d been caught.

On the second day, I arrived at the seller’s house with a bundle of cash to exchange for the fine antique item that would soon transform my bedroom into a home decorating triumph.

Suddenly, a short man with a craggy face walked out of the house carrying the frame. “Hey, I’m John,” he said in a raspy smoker’s voice. “Darla’s gone, so I’ll put this in your car.” After he placed the frame into my back seat, I handed him the bundle of cash, smiled, and waved goodbye.

Back home, I couldn’t wait to carry the frame upstairs to our bedroom. All I needed was two nails, and voila! I’d soon be sleeping in a Coastal Living magazine cover.

However, on closer inspection, I noticed a modern-day label displaying mounting instructions on the thin particle board backing. I tapped the frame with a fingernail, and realized it was constructed out of hollow moulded plastic, painted to appear antiqued. The poor-quality “canvas” appeared pixelated, as if it was a print of a digital photograph, likely reproduced without permission. The last indication that I’d been had — an oval sticker that clearly read, “Made in China.”

At that moment, I didn’t know whether to be furious with the seller or myself. “Was I a sucker for not inspecting the frame before I handed cash over? Was the seller wrong for describing the frame as antique? Do I have the right to ask for a refund?”

Yes, yes, and well, yes and no.

The old adage, “Buyer beware,” applies to all sales, regardless of consumer protection laws, moral obligations and principles of justice, fairness and common decency. Undoubtedly, I should have inspected the item before I paid for it. That said, buyers are entitled to free Purchase Protection for eligible orders on Facebook Marketplace, for items that don’t arrive or arrive damaged/unusable, or items that don’t match the seller’s description on the product page. Other companies such as eBay and Etsy have similar buyer protection coverage, too. The frame I received clearly wasn’t the antique described by the seller (more than 100 years old) so it was theoretically eligible for buyer Purchase Protection. 

Unfortunately, I didn’t qualify for Facebook Marketplace Purchase Protection because it applies only to online checkout sales, similar to eBay and Etsy, but excludes local pickup transactions.

Regardless, even for a sucker like me, requesting refunds from online sellers can’t hurt, especially knowing sellers need good reviews. “I’m sorry, but I was so disappointed to see that the frame isn’t ‘antique’ as advertised,” I began the message to the seller on the third day. “It’s hollow plastic,” I wrote, attaching photo of the “Made in China” sticker. “May I return it for a refund?” I asked as sweetly as possible.

The seller had me, hook, line and sinker. But, my polite request must’ve softened her grip on that wad of cash, because in an act of human decency, she released me back into the wild.

Read more at themeatandpotatoesoflife.com and in Lisa’s book, “The Meat and Potatoes of Life: My True Lit Com.” Email: meatandpotatoesoflife@gmail.com