Try dealing with a certain retail store which I'll call S - after they've messed up your order for a rototiller part.
There's a little rubber seat that fits down inside a tube in the carburetor of my rototiller. A needle valve gets pushed into it when there's enough gasoline in the carburetor. The valve closes off the gas supply, then opens again when more is needed.
Simple, right?
I got my tiller manual, realized I couldn't order the rubber seat without the needle valve, ordered the kit, waited three days, got the package, opened the box, got my valve.
No little rubber seat was in the box.
Because I had days ahead of me with plenty of time to beat my bloody, battered head against an unyielding brick wall, I e-mailed customer service.
Days went by as the S - think tank worked diligently to figure out how in the world I could have ordered the wrong part. I picture them in my mind at S - World Headquarters, dozens of lab-coat-wearing people with clipboards feeding data into a monstrous mainframe deep in the basement.
I'm sure every once in a while, one of 'em hollers, "Eureka! I've got it!" Then he consults his readouts again and says, "Oh, wait - Never mind. I didn't consider the abrogation of the square root of x minus y-cubed."
In our lengthy correspondence, I just keep repeating the part number, swearing it's the right part, even using ALL CAPITAL LETTERS at times to try to get my point across.
Just send me the part I ordered, I beg. It's not complicated. (It's probably only fair to admit that my recent letters have gotten a little sarcastic.)
A demand for my money back was met with a reproachful, earnest response that made me feel guilty.
After all, they are trying so hard to help me, you would think I could be a little grateful.
Somehow, we'll get to the bottom of this, they vow, if it's the last thing we ever do. "Click-beep-click-hum-chugga-beep-chugga" goes the mainframe as it contemplates my crisis, analyzing the myriad possibilities.
In the meantime, I found an old, discarded lawn mower of the same brand as my tiller down in the ravine on our place. Took apart the carburetor, got the rubber seat, put it in the tiller carb.
It still doesn't run right, but it's better.
S - still wants me to send them the serial number off my tiller, the model number, the engine model number and my grandmother's Social Security number.
I can't send them the serial number off my tiller. I bought it secondhand from a guy on a motorcycle in the dead of night. It didn't come with a vehicle history report, if you know what I mean.
I ain't saying there's anything in its past I don't want people to know about. All I'm saying is you don't go looking under rocks if you don't like bugs, you don't bite into a persimmon to find out if it's ripe, and you don't poke your nose onto the stove burner to find out if it's hot yet.
***
The Nice Person of the Week Award goes to the lady who let two guys in front of her at the checkout at Smitty's at lunchtime on Wednesday. She had a bunch of coupons, she said, and each of us behind her was buying only one item.
It's little things that can make or break a day. In Ohio, you don't let people in front of you in line. That's why on average Missourians have 100 extra good days per year, according to statistics I just made up.
***
Joyce cut down her first tree, a blackjack oak, with the chain saw last week. It fell right where she wanted it.
I'm just afraid she might have enjoyed it too much. One of these nights I'm going to go home and find out that - like Laura Ingalls - I've moved from The Big Woods to a Little House on the Prairie.
That's kind of funny, because for five years I've had justify the homicide of every tree we've cut down on our place. Now Joyce realizes how much fun the wanton carnage can be.
***
My condolences to the family of Larry Mahan of Lebanon, who died last week.
Philosopher, inventor, author, husband, father, grandfather and friend, you'll be missed.
Ken York's column appears in The Daily Record, Lebanon, Mo. It is reprinted here with permission.
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