26.10.10

I certainly admire people who do things

Sometimes, learning the system and playing along reaps delightful benefits. We’re kind of nominal fans of surfing Goodwill stores for so-so deals, screen-printable apparel, and the occasional LP score (swordfishtrombones? yes please). However, Goodwill’s pricing is often very questionable. Case in point, an in-the-box coffee maker with a $24.98 sticker being resold for $25. I get it. They are a business, but i’ll have to pass. But what to do when your microwave finally kicks the proverbial bucket? (is that an allusion to one hanging themself? that would be rather grim… i’ll do some research on that and probably NOT get back with you) Yes folks, microwave ovens apparently do indeed have a lifespan and that lifespan is apparently fourteen years. This particular ‘wave traces back through ten years of marriage and four years of college to Mama Jane’s high school graduation when she received it as a gift from family friends and employers. Good times. Au revoir, olde friend.


Now let’s not get into a debate about whether or not a microwave oven is a necessity. We’ve already been through that and you know who’s going to win this one. Game, set, match. So, when you decide that you simply cannot live responsibly on this planet without a microwave oven, where do you go to acquire one… legally?


Retail? Come on. What would Mister Ramsey say about that?


Ask a friend? And become a charity case? (just kidding)


Craigslist? Good luck.


Goodwill? Perhaps. There are only a baker’s dozen in a five mile vicinity. Besides, while we’re there, maybe we can find a copy of John Wesley Harding only to be disappointed upon finding the vinyl riddled with scratches and marks. Alright, by golly, i’m in!


Well, after visiting four or five stores, we essentially found two microwaves. The first was the size of a television with a dial resembling a television dial and might have even had an antennae coming out of the back. No, i promise you, it was in fact a microwave not a television. It was also probably closing in on forty years and they wanted $25 for it. I thought the thing would have been amazing, but upon further consideration we figured it would probably use more energy heating a bowl of oatmeal than our electric oven would use heating our home. The second microwave was still in the box with a ding in the side, but priced at $48. Now, here’s where playing the game comes into play. You see, in the greater indianapolis area, Goodwill stores adhere to a weekly color code. In other words, every item in the store is assigned one of five(?) colors. Each week, starting on sunday, everything bearing a tag with the determined color sells for 50% of the sale price. Whether my explanation of any of this makes sense is of little consequence. What matters is that if we came back to the store three days later (sunday) and the color for that week matched that of the tag on the microwave oven box then it could be ours for a mere $24!


Now to bring this story to a screeching halt of a conclusion. Sunday morning, we are parked outside Goodwill waiting for the doors to open. Why yes, that was us who you were pointing out to the kids. Twenty minutes we waited while Baby Jane sobbed and sobbed, but you better believe Mama Jane was the first one through the gate when it opened. She made her way back to the far corner of the store where our little Sunbeam was waiting patiently for us to claim him as our own.


Also wearing a red tag: the rad chord organ pictured above. Also take a look at that shoe in the same photo. Baby Jane told me just this morning that my shoes were “broken” and that i needed to “throw them in the trash”. From the mouths of babes.


The moral of the story is this: Never pay retail for an appliance because there might be a chord organ in it for you.


Now enjoy this depiction of a papa lion nursing two abandoned gosling back to health.


Thank you, Fort Wayne Zoo, for your inspired interpretations of the circle of life using the under-appreciated medium of pumpkins.

12.10.10

Autumn was here or God’s jovial laugh

Me and them Jane gals were all giddy with excitement to visit the apple orchard in hopes of handpicking some crispity, crunchety goodness last weekend. So as soon as Mama Jane returned home from a long day at the learnatorium, we scooted ourselves on down to the Anderson orchard to do just that. During the car ride, the three of us exchanged thoughts on our favorite apples and took bets on who we thought would collect the most apples from the orchard trees. “I can taste those sweet, sweet Jonagolds even now,” I cried. We even sang songs about apples with the car windows rolled down for the whole world to hear. We simply could not hide our unabashed zeal for apples. Then just as we were finishing a dramatic retelling of the legend of Johnny Appleseed, we found ourselves pulling into the long gravel driveway that led to the heart of the orchard.

“Weeee’re heeeeere!” we shouted with elation. But as we surveyed the acres and acres of orchard in sheer wonder, we couldn’t help but notice that beneath their shroud of leaves, the branches of the trees appeared somewhat barren. Perhaps it was only our perspective. After all, we were a fair distance from the trees at this juncture. And yet, no other visitors to the orchard seemed to be amongst the trees picking apples of their own. Curious. Nevertheless, we exited the car and made our way to the concession stand to claim our apple picking passes.

“May I help you?” asked the kindly woman behind the counter.

“Please,” I replied, “could you tell me how my ladies and I would go about picking our own apples from your lush, majestic orchard?”
“Oh, I’m afraid our trees have already been picked clean for the season,” she answered. “We had an early growing season this year. Unfortunately, it’s not up to us. Mother Nature is in charge.”

Well, I wouldn’t hear of it. I immediately demanded to speak to this presumed matriarch of the family. I wanted answers, but my demands were merely met by puzzled stares and the chirping of crickets. I guess this Ms. Nature was busy and couldn’t be bothered with my invasive questioning. The Jane gals assured me that our journey to the orchard would not be wasted, and that we should just take a walk through the orchard enjoying our time among the trees together. I reluctantly relinquished my hostility toward the orchard personnel and their mother with the hope of bringing peaceful resolution to the situation. We walked away, enjoyed the orchard, collected dried corn remnants from the outskirts of the magnificent corn maze, selected a peck of fujis and a gallon of cider, and mangled our gums on a decadent caramel apple.

Did the afternoon turn out exactly as we had planned? Of course not, but the Jane gals and myself had embarked on this adventure together and at the end of the day we had apples, a tiny pumpkin, and a possibly-stolen corn cob. But most importantly, we had one another. And isn’t that what’s important. I guess that’s why we always have to keep our plans loosey goosey and expect the unexpected. After all, “you want to make God laugh? Make a plan. Or read him a Dave Berry book.”

Thank you, Tracy Jordan…

Thank you.