Saga of a Dead Maine Pig

Our pig died. Well, jeez, we’d only had it since the ‘70s. I’d say we got our money’s worth.

I’m not talking about a real pig, of course. “Pig” is what we call garbage disposals in this neck of the woods.

So off we go to Bangor. They had way too many garbage disposals to chose from at Sears, but this fast-talking sales fella, Wayne, easily answered all our questions.

“Does this one come with everything we need to install it?” Charlie asks.

“Oh, yes,” Wayne assures us. “Everything you need is right in the box.”

You can guess where I’m going with this one, right? But stay with me, here.

First, I’ve got to tell you, all that overload of information they give you, coupled with the glare of fluorescent lights and the blaring music make it mighty hard to make a decision. Why is loud music playing everywhere you go? Heck, I’ve walked out of stores, even when they have something I want, because of the music. Call me an old fogey, but I can’t hear myself think!

Anyways, Charlie and me finally make a decision. “We’ll go with the middle of your road pig,” I says.

“Good choice,” goes Wayne. “That one just happens to be on sale!”

Then he gives us our receipt and says, “Pull your car up to the round about at the south entrance, go inside, scan your receipt, and a warehouse tech will bring it out to the car for you.” Then Wayne disappears.

“Did you get that?” Charlie asks.

“I think we’re supposed to pull up to that door over there.”

So we get the truck, and drive it to where we’re supposed to. So far, so good. Inside the lobby there’s a computer kind of thing talking away to no one in particular.

“Scan the bar code on your receipt,” it says with quite a bit of enthusiasm for a computer, so I do. Bang, our name pops up on the screen beside the words “garbage disposal” and a timer starts clicking down the seconds ‘til lift off.

“What have they done to this place?” Charlie asks.

“It’s like Star Trek or something.”

All of a sudden, we hear a voice overhead promoting an upcoming sale with extended hours. “Have you ever wanted to shop at Sears in your pajamas at midnight?”

Charlie looks at me, “Can’t say that I have.”

“Nope,” I chuckle, “and I wouldn’t want to see anyone else shopping in their pajamas, either!”

Right on time, Mr. Spock arrives. Just kidding. Our warehouse tech arrives, all tattooed and happy. “LeClair?” he asks.

“That’s us!”

And with that, he wheels our new pig out to the truck, hoists it onto the bed, and we’re off. Deal done.

Well, the next morning Charlie had a bear of a time getting our old pig out of the sink. Let’s just say there was much gruntin’ and cussin’. Then, as you probably guessed, everything we needed to install it was not in the box. In fact, the darn thing wasn’t even the right size!

Back to Sears we go. Mind you, that’s an hour from here. We were some ticked, I’ll tell you. We park and walk inside, only to find out we have to go back to the south entrance and scan our receipt again. In less than a minute, a different but equally cheery warehouse tech comes out of the back. (They all must be drinking the Kool Aid.) He scans the pig we’re returning and gives us a new receipt, which we bring back inside the store.

This time, we get a different sales clerk, who proceeds to contradict nearly everything Wayne had told us. Turns out the best pig for our needs is, surprise, surprise, fifty dollars more. So we go ahead and up-grade, only to find out it’s back ordered. So in about ten days, we have to trek back to Bangor where they’ll subject us to more scanning, no doubt.

Why is it that every house project involves a minimum of two trips to the store? Three, if you’re talking window treatments. And dust ruffles? You don’t want to know!

That’s it for now. Catch you on the flip side!

(Listen to Ida's podcast by clicking here [2])