Don't Worry, It's Insured

The Grand-twerp came into command central and stood just beyond my reach. I saw him mentally measuring the distance between us and he took half of a step back. “Do we have any extra TV’s?” he asked. At first I was impressed that he was a giving person wanting to help the disadvantaged. Then I woke up.

“Why?” He took another step back. “Mine is broken”. Silence for a 4-count, and then I repeated the question. “Why?” He hesitated a second and confessed, “It wasn’t made very good. I punched it and it just shattered. Samsungs do that. I looked it up.” I mentally measured the distance between us and lowered the footstool of my recliner. “Why’d you punch it?” He thought for a few minutes and said “I don’t know”. Well, as long as you don’t know, that’s fine. Even money says it was out of joy instead of from anger. People punch TVs all of the time when they’re happy or doing well on their video game. It could happen.

Since I wasn’t happy enough to punch him I took a deep breath and tried to remember why not drinking vodka is a good thing. I centered my chi or whatever the Geezer Life Force is called.

I thought I might’ve bought the warranty with the TV. It couldn’t be hard to find and redeem the insurance. The hunt was on.

We have a filing system. We file important papers in the house. Sometimes we put them in the car or the camper but usually in the house or the barn. Probably the papers were in the house. Maybe.

I finally found a treasure trove of appliance and electronic guarantees in a drawer full of odd socks and sterilized tuna cans. I like to keep similar things together. Six hours, 84 socks, and 3 cans later I found the receipt. Smack that easy button because I am done.

Receipt in hand, I fired up the old compubox. I cruised over to the website of everyone’s favorite cultural and fashion Mecca, Walmart. Their legal department wanted me to load a picture of the receipt in the easiest way.

It took me about an hour to get a legible picture of the receipt loaded. That was easy. I filled out an easy form and hit the easy button. Done and done.
The next day I received an email that said “You’re almost done, just complete these easy steps.” I just needed to reload the receipt again and send proof that I recycled the TV. I also needed to send them a copy of their own email because they obviously don’t have a sock/can drawer to keep important things in.

How hard could it be to recycle a TV? I mean, I’ve seen that someone recycled TVs by throwing them in the weeds, but I haven’t figured out how they got documentation proving it. I called our city office and they aren’t a fan of that sort of recycling. I called various recycling centers all over the Galaxy and TVs were verboten. Finally I learned that Best Buy takes TVs. Their website guaranteed they’d be glad to take any TV, just bring it in, drop it off, and pay $25.
The nearest store is 50 miles away, so I took the easy way and called ahead to ensure that they still welcome TVs. After 90 minutes negotiating with the automated gatekeeper my phone went dead waiting on a human. A recharge and more negotiations still didn’t get a person on the phone, so I took the easy drive to the store through the Indiana Abyss.

I parked in the easy space and went in the store with the broken TV under my arm. I walked around through the labyrinth of backlit glass counters and blue-shirted deaf attendees. I surmised they were deaf because every phone everywhere was ringing and no employee answered any of them.

I finally found a roped off serpentine path to a desk that said “Customer Disservice”. After being next in line for a fortnight I made it to the non-hearing associate. His lip reading was impeccable because he understood my need to pay him $25. He slowly gave me a recycling receipt and a headache.

After the trip home I was able to upload the proof I didn’t throw the TV in the weeds. I waited. The next day I resubmitted everything and I waited. Day 3 came and went. Day 4 flew by.

Day 5 I got an email that my claim was processed. Day 6 I searched the electronic version of a sock and can drawer, my trash folder. My easy-to-use gift card had been languishing there for 2 days. I and it went to the store and got a replacement TV. That was easy.

In the end it took me about 60 hours, 9 gallons of gas, $25 cash, and an ulcer to get an $88 TV replaced. If I earned minimum wage and at today’s gas prices my free TV cost $553. That’s an easy way to get $88. The Grandkid should maybe take a step back.


Fini.

Perfection Isn't

About a hundred years ago the kids wanted to play grown-up by hosting Thanksgiving, or “Turkey Sacrifice Day”. They performed the most important ritual of the season and baked the bird in their brand new stove. With banging of gongs and chants of “ooh” and “aah” the golden bird came out of the ceremonial oven and perched on the top of the range. None of the immature adherents knew how to carve the creature, so I volunteered. I made the males watch as I performed the ritual slicing. When I finished I noticed that the iconic butter-laced broth was miraculously gone. How was I to know that the bird was cooked in a flimsy foil pan? I’d inadvertently pierced the bottom of the pan with the razor sharp dagger. The holiday nectar ran out and into the nether regions of the stove. Thank goodness the fireproof insulation soaked it all up. For years after that the house smelled of turkey every time a cake or pizza was cooked. We missed the gravy that year but the stove smelled wonderful for a long time. Yes family, you’re welcome.

Everyone in the family remembers that Thanksgiving. Nobody remembers the 10,000 times everything went well. The holiday being imperfect endeared it to everyone. In a way they trusted the event because they would have done better than I did. Being imperfect is more perfect.

It’s like my sage council to all of my grandsons. I taught each of them to be imperfect when they go out in public. ZZ Top says girls are crazy about a sharp-dressed man, but they prefer to fix a man who’s half a bubble off of plumb. I taught the boys to mess up their collars before they go out. No lady can resist fixing the twisted collar. The imperfection of the collar makes the man seem more perfect and the guy gets attention. Even sprinkling flour on a dark shirt makes girls brush it off and love the man for it. Once again, you’re welcome.

I used this science when I was selling my car. Many tightwads, like me, nit-pick every little thing to get the price reduced. I made the car seem imperfect to seem more trustworthy. While the guy was looking at the car I distressed over the fact the lighter didn’t work well and the trunk latch stuck. The buyer thought I was an idiot so he trusted me. Since he trusted stupid me he trusted the car and bought it. Imperfection made the car more perfect.

Want more proof? One word: Martha Stewart. OK, that’s 2 words. Martha is perfect. She brags about being a “maniacal perfectionist”. She’s like the Evil Suzie Homemaker. Everything she does on TV she proclaims “perfect” and people hate her for it. She gets on her PBS show and whips up a holiday dish nobody ever heard of in 97 steps nobody can remember and without putting a hair out of place. People despise and don’t trust her because she’s too perfect. Her lawyer didn’t even like her enough to keep her out a jail. If she pulled that “little miss perfect” routine in jail she probably got smacked around by someone imperfect. We all think “that’s a good thing”.

It explains why we love Joanna Gaines on HGTV. She seems perfect at first because she builds a house while raising 5 kids and making homemade jelly in a kitchen she designed using old pallets and Walmart bags. Then we meet her goofy husband Chip that probably can’t tell shiplap from Shinola. We think, “She’s so together but she married this idiot.” That makes her imperfect and we love her for it.

My Grandson Xavier gets it. He’s always been the smartest person in the room and people are suspicious of that. He acts less perfect by being a slacker. In high school he could have had the best grades in the building with half of his brain tied behind his back. He wouldn’t have been trusted or liked so he worked hard at being a slacker that barely passed. Others dug that and he was instantly more likeable. I expect some of his peers found him pretty groovy and perfect.

So what’s the moral of the story? It’s kind of a Zen thing. Perfect isn’t perfect. Imperfection is perfect. Forget Martha and mess your collar up while you ruin the stove. Work at just barely getting by and you’ll get way ahead. You could also say that being remembered for flaws is much better than being a forgotten perfectionist.

You’re welcome.

Fini.