Divorce vs. Murder

A recent lifestyle change led my sainted wife and me to pack our house and move.  No, the law wasn’t closing in on us rather this move was talked about for years but never scheduled.  Now was the time.

 

 

We had been in this particular abode for over a score.  For those of you who are not fans of The Gettysburg Address, a score is twenty years.
 

Our house is modest with two bedrooms and two baths.  The balance consists of a small living room, dining room, galley kitchen, and semi-finished basement.  I also built a workshop that doubled as a storage shed.
 

Packing actually began five years ago when a bored neighbor visited my sainted wife with a bottle of wine.  During this episode they decided to begin the packing.  Removing Waterford crystal from the china hutch, they carefully wrapped each stem with eight sheets of newspaper, putting four glasses in each box.
 

If I recall correctly, we own roughly twenty stems which quickly filled five boxes, along with various other collected pieces of glass and china and a variety of just junk.  Stuff I didn’t even know we had was pulled from that hutch, along with an assortment of linen napkins and plates, saucers, and other things we never use in lieu of paper plates.
 

Soon we had 18 boxes of newspaper plus a few delicate items inside, stacked about the living room.  Apparently the wine supply had been exhausted and the packing party was done.
 

Fast forward to a month ago and 37 trips to the store to buy more boxes and tape when space rapidly began dwindling from the stacks of cardboard and miscellany that seemed to appear from nowhere.  I even asked if we were storing stuff for neighbors and friends as much of this stuff was unrecognizable by me.
 

It wasn’t long before Smokey the Cat was wondering what was going on.  He corralled his toys to a safe spot in a small, clear corner to wait for the results.
 

Results, at this point, could only go two ways – divorce or murder.  I was personally leaning toward murder, but I couldn’t locate my shovel for the shallow grave.
 

Eventually, a maze-like creation of towering containers formed a pathway to the bathroom, front door, and fridge.
 

The realization we had too much stuff wasn’t as surprising as the fact that I was, unbeknownst to anyone, a master packer – the consummate stasher of goods – and should have a job lading transoceanic ships.
 

Nonetheless, the movers were both astonished and amazed at the amount of goods that actually fit into our tiny home.
 

All-in-all, the move was successful to the point of having all our goods safely arrive among the 305 boxes.
 

Now I need to start opening them to find Smokey who is likely somewhere therein with his toys.

We Don’t Sell That Stuff Here

A craving for clams took my sainted wife and I on quite a trek.  Two weeks ago we went on a hunt for flounder to stuff with crab meat, for dinner.

 

The flounder search proved fruitless.  Travails up and down the peninsula yielded only pre-packaged catfish imported from China.  Evidently there are no catfish in America.  But, I digress.

 

As you are reading this, it is important to keep in mind that a peninsula, by definition, is a body of land surrounded by water on three sides.  In our case, the waters consist of Chincoteague Bay, the Atlantic Ocean, and Chesapeake Bay.

 

Ask nearly anyone with a boat and they will tell you they make their living as watermen – people who harvest the water for food.  Fare taken from these waters include blue crabs, conch, clams, oysters, and, since this is considered prime flounder grounds, flounder.

 

Unsure as to where all this flounder went, we gave up the quest and settled on rib eye steak, potatoes, and squash, all cooked on the grill.

 

My hankering for seafood returned and the treasure hunt began anew.  Clams, which are a staple on The Shore, should be easier to find because of their sheer abundance.  Wrong.

 

Making our way to sleepy Saxis, Virginia, we were met by the usual gang of toothless, booted, slurring guys who were stacking boxes upon boxes of soft shell crabs.  We bought soft shells there before and, since they are smack-dab on the Chesapeake Bay, I figured the pickens should be easy.  Wrong, again.

 

It seems as though no one on The Shore sells seafood to anyone.

 

My fridge was full of corn-on-the-cob, potatoes, and sausage, all awaiting clams to complete the menu for the clam bake.

 

The trip home discovered a fellow in a truck on the side of the road with a sign reading “Clams for sale.”  My kind of guy.

 

He was delighted to sell me 100 little necks and proudly announced he was there every Friday, ready for business.

 

A few days later, a couple of happy hour beers brought me to meet a fellow bar patron who was listening to my seafood woes and assuaged my concerns about an upcoming bivalve shortage.

 

He confided in me that he has a “guy” who can get me clams as that is his contact’s business.  A phone number was surreptitiously slipped to me along with the instructions to “mention my name” when calling.

 

Akin to a clandestine spy operation, I furtively placed the precious series of digits in my cell phone and promised my contact the call would be made.

 

I must say that such behavior – the nonexistence of seafood on The Shore – is embarrassing.  It would be no different if steaks were unavailable in Kansas City, Missouri.

 

It is about time the watermen quit carping about the lack of customers and actually try to sell their goods, and it is also time for the local businesses to sell local wares, locally.

 

Say, “Goodbye!”

For you younger readers, there once was a chain of department stores named Montgomery Ward.  They populated many shopping centers and were the main rival of Sears.

Montgomery Ward went the way of the dinosaur, buggy whip, and ice factory, because they were replaced by new, innovative ideas that surpassed their venues.

Sears has never been my favorite store because their products are junk and they all carry a seven-digit number.

Garage door openers, hedge clippers, hammers, weed whackers, and screw drivers, all have a seven-digit number.

People at Sears will gladly sell you a product, but are slow to help you thereafter.  Years ago, my sainted wife bought me a screwdriver set from Sears.  Their claim to fame is that they stand behind their products by replacing their hand tools without question.

It wasn’t but a few months later when I broke the tips off two Philips screw drivers.  I took them back to Sears and was told they couldn’t replace them because I needed a receipt.  I returned home with two broken screw drivers.

Then, I was lured into Sears for a weed whacker that was on sale.  After a short time I realized the head that feeds the line was not up to my standards.  I returned to the store and tried to buy a replacement head, to no avail.

The clerk grinned and announced there was nothing he could do “without that pesky seven-digit number.”  I asked him to look it up on the computer because it was purchased with a credit card from that very cash register.  He refused and walked away.  I’m willing to wager that if I had brought the weed whacker into Sears for repair, he would have looked it up to ensure the warranty was in compliance with the purchase date.

By now if you think I would have learned my lesson, you would be wrong.  Rather, I bought a router from them and needed to get a replacement base and bit wrench for it.  I had that pesky seven-digit number in-hand at the store when I was informed they no longer sell parts for this three year-old tool.

And just recently I attempted to buy replacement blades for my Craftsman gas edger.  I have the original box with a number from Briggs and Stratton.  Not having much success on the World Wide Web, I called the Sears “help line.”

A douchebag named Adam answered the phone and gleefully asked my problem.  I told him what I was looking for and he asked for the number of the machine itself.  I was prepared because I took a photo of the label with my cell phone - the actual photo appears above.  That number is obliterated and illegible.  My sainted wife and I resembled two CSI technicians armed with a magnifying glass to try and resolve this with a happy ending, for a change.  No luck.

Happy Adam informed me there was nothing he could do.  Adam confirmed that I was a slow learner and should have shopped elsewhere.  I will shop elsewhere from now on. 

It won’t be long before we can add Sears to that list with Montgomery Ward, dinosaurs, buggy whips, and ice factories.

Bye, bye to you and that pesky seven-digit number.  And, Adam, start looking for a new job.

Doing My Part

Since the holidays were approaching, and I needed some picnic side dishes, I headed to Walmart where I usually shop for groceries.  After an ardent search, I could not locate the potato salad which I so enjoy.

 

They had macaroni salad, cole slaw, and some potato salads, alas not what I was looking for.  One potato salad was “regular,” another was “Amish style,” and yet another was labeled “egg” potato salad.

 

But, I so enjoy the “r-word” potato salad.  I needed professional Walmart help.

 

“Where is the ‘r-word’ potato salad?” I asked.

The lovely woman named déLaShontá – that’s what her official name tag said – loading chickens into the rotisseries shook her head and asked me what I was talking about.

“The r-word potato salad,” I reiterated.

“What is the ‘r-word’ potato salad?” she posed.

“That’s the salad that you normally have in-between the Amish potato salad and the hummus,” was my answer.

“But, what’s that?” the Walmart deli official asked.

 

“That’s stuff made from pureed chick peas with olive oil and…” was all I could get out before I was interrupted.

 

Evidently there was some sort of rotisserie chicken shortage crisis that needed immediate attention, and there was no time for helping needy customers in search of wanted products.

 

“I know what hummus be!” retorted déLaShontá.  “What’s that r-word stuff you looking for?”

 

Clearly she was baffled by my simple inquiry.  I approached her and whispered to her.  “This may be offensive to you but, it is redskin potato salad,” was my answer in my absolute lowest voice possible.

 

Hoping no one in the store but déLaShontá heard me, I told her how that word describing the type of potato used in the creation of this delectable side dish, and subsequent name, has become suddenly unpopular and has even been banned by some politicians.  This earnest effort to protect tender, virgin ears from such vulgar words should be embraced rather than scorned.

 

It was at this point that déLaShontá claimed to be a Washington Redskins fan.  Three nearby customers fell to the linoleum floor and curled into balls, writhing about the aisle next to the frozen pizzas and crab dip.  I might add the crab dip is quite delectable.

 

Plainly evident was that those three agonizing individuals were uber-sensitive to offensive to words that have long-described products and teams. 

 

This hoopla began when a few bored individuals needed a cause to back.  Beating baby seals to death was already taken so, making the name of the Washington Redskins disgusting was fair game.

 

We are now not allowed to say the word “redskins” out of fear of sending countless numbers of the masses into conniption fits.  Please don’t thank me – I’m just doing my part to help the easily-offended.