Posts Tagged 'Car repairs'

Shopping isn’t for sissies

I took my aging Mercedes to the dealer on Monday. It was my first service that was not free, having crossed the fifty thousand-mile warranty mark about two months ago. It was not even close to being free.

My original focus of the service was an oil change, checking the air in the tires and washing the car. Two-thousand-five-hundred dollars later, I had a clean car, oil you could fry fish in, and three pages of other things that defy description. Truthfully, I was somewhat relieved that it was only two-thousand-five-hundred dollars, since I had heard that Mercedes often sells one’s spouse into slavery to collect the bill.

Never quite trusting that Mercedes trained mechanics really know what they’re doing, I spent the day following the service listening for odd noises, sensing the feel of the road through the newly aired tires, and planning my moves should the car merely decide to be grouchy and strand me in the middle of the apparently always-to-be road excavations on Ojai Avenue.

It takes about forty minutes to drive from my home to the Mercedes dealer in Oxnard. Never one to pass up an opportunity, I decided to visit Costco which has conveniently placed itself walking distance from the Mercedes Bank and Trust. I had forgotten that it was Veterans’ Day and was confronted with a parking space so far removed from Costco’s front door that required use of my hiking shoes. A horde of shoppers augmented the holiday festivities; some of whom seemed way too happy while standing motionless in the checkout lines.

The principal item that prompted my visit to this shopping colossus was toilet paper. Ever since Jackie and I have become an item, I have graciously accepted the responsibility for buying the toilet paper for the two of us. It binds us. And the savings helps move the day of her retirement ever closer by augmenting her IRA and, eventually, her Social Security. Jackie has more than once commented on my selflessness, which, now that I think about it, seems to coincide with the periodic exhaustion of thirty rolls of Kirkland’s best.

The man-sized packs of Kirkland’s best are located on the right side of the overactive thyroid building, right next to the dog food. I cruised down the aisle, feeling the excitement that accompanies the purchase of toilet paper. Normally, one can find dozens of the thirty-roll packs lined up, each ready to be loaded in that nice little space at the bottom of the shopping cart. The same cart that always looks in need of a steam cleaning and a new set of wheels.

I reached the dog food but didn’t see Kirkland’s best. I thought I must have missed it in the reverie generated by thoughts of septic-tank-safe tissue. I retraced my steps all the way back to the Huggies and Nappies. And back again to the dog food. I was finally confronted by a large empty space that had once housed the object of my quest.

How is that possible? In thirty years of buying that stuff, there had always been an inexhaustible supply. Enough for every starving child in India. Plenty of tissue that lets you, given its paltry cost, double and triple up on the folding before applying it one’s nether parts.

I looked left and right. Charmin met my gaze on the right. Soft, cushy, expensive Charmin. Its presence at Costco has always been static, seeming to neither diminish nor increase. Perhaps it’s there simply to push us to Kirkland’s best which, except for its bargain price, would otherwise remain dusty and homeless.

To my left was something called Marathon. The name made me think it was intended for those who spend an inordinate amount of time on the porcelain throne. Perhaps reading is the user’s favorite pastime or they just want to avoid their spouse and kids.

The Marathon packaging was dull, listless and uninviting. It did occur to me that the packaging has little to do with the quality of the contents, but it was just another reason to bemoan the absence of Kirkland’s best.

I gave Marathon an opportunity to redeem itself from its poorly designed packaging. I caressed the thirty-roll parcel. I yearned to read about Marathon’s features and accept this newcomer. Unfortunately, the package was relatively devoid of glorious descriptors that could have included “Softness that makes you come back for more.” Or, “Absorbs the messy things that you leave behind.”  Or my favorite, “Using a roll a day keeps you regular.”

I decided on the Charmin, filled my cart with other things I really didn’t need, and proceeded to the checkout. Every lane was open. Every lane had six or more people with carts filled to overflowing. I scanned each lane, counted the number of items in each cart, and finally, gauged the agility and maximum warp speed of the shoppers ahead of me.

Having made my evaluation, I settled into a lane and waited. Two minutes later, I looked around and did a re-evaluation. There, two lanes away was a much better prospect. One that would surely be faster than the one I was in. One that would allow me to spend my remaining years somewhere other than Costco. So I moved.

Big mistake. There’s one factor that cannot be predetermined. That of random chance. The act of god that shuts down the lane for the same time that it took the glaciers to scrape across North America. A lane delay that gives you the opportunity to watch the people you just abandoned move forward at the speed of light and leave Costco well in advance of the next ice age; one in which I am sure to participate.

My turn came. I charged the obligatory minimum of three hundred dollars to my fraying Visa Card, and pushed my now over-filled cart to the outer reaches of the Costco archipelago.

Early that evening I delivered the Charmin to sweet Jackie. Suitably impressed by my purchase of the expensive stuff, she kissed me tenderly, stowed the thirty rolls in her closet and we sat at the dining table recounting the day.

We agreed that you know you’re settling into a very special relationship when you get excited talking about the qualities of toilet tissue.


Pages

Recent Comments