A Dirge, or, Things You Should Never Buy On Sale

I love a bargain.  I surely, truly do.  My heart skipped a beat when I saw my banana-creme leather Coach bucket bag peeking out of a bin at Plato’s Closet over the summer for $50.  I got a thrill last week when I visited the Bath and Body Works’ Semi-Annual Sale and got $200 worth of shower gel for $35.  I live for the days when I get an email from J Crew saying that if I act fast-TODAY!- I can receive an additional 40% of everything in the Clearance pages (Cashmere HEAVEN!).  I love expensive things, but I enjoy those luxuries sensibly.  (I did shed more than a single tear when I returned those suede multi-colored Miu Miu heels a couple years back….sure, they retailed at $850, but the $199 that I paid was still enough to keep me awake for three nights.)

Luxury cotton, 850 thread count Egyptian Cotton sheets?  King size, $29.  Once a year, new Asics running kicks to forestall the inevitable shin splints?  $55.  That fabulous Tory Burch sequin dress that has finally arrived just in time for NEXT year’s holiday parties?  Well, not such a small sum on that one, but much less than the $700 retail tag at Neiman Marcus.  I believe in quality, and not quantity, and being in love with the few things that I do own.

That said, I realized today that there are certain things that you should never buy off of a clearance rack.  Lasik Surgery probably heads that list.  I’m not sure that’s a service I’d be comfortable bargain shopping for.  If his name is Jim-Bob and he’s wielding a laser scalpel around my cornea, I think I might pass, even if I have found a Buy One Eye, Get the Other Eye Half Off coupon.  Same applies to vasectomies….(Get it?  Buy One, Get One?)

Next up is Grape Nuts cereal.  I am a big fan.  I love it hot or cold, the crunch and nuttiness is pretty damn awesome.  Toss a few blueberries in and WHAMMO!  You’ve got a near perfect breakfast/snack/anytime you’re hungry food.  Grape Nuts?  Awesome.  Generic, store brand, discounted Raisin Legumes?  GROSS.  They disintegrate when they come into contact with liquid and all you’re left with is a gritty, brown slurry that tastes like damp cardboard.  In this case, pay full price.  Unless you have a bathroom to wallpaper and you’ve forgotten the paste….

Other examples include birth control (sure, you saved $15 this month, but I really think that this is the type of product that has an expiration date for a reason….), Brazilian waxes (vagina jihad, anyone?), hair services (Honey, there is nothing Super about that Cut!) and Day Care (are you really willing to wager your children’s future for background checks and certifications?)

All of that brings me to today’s point.  On Tuesday, I was in Safeway and I spied the Clearance section of the meat department.  There, in all of it’s glory, was a 17 pound, free range turkey with a 75% off sticker emblazoned on the front left breast.  In the simple math that even I’m capable of performing, that meant $8.  Eight Dollars!  For a free range turkey!

I was excited because the Old Man and I were alone this past Thanksgiving.  We were alone, and I couldn’t justify spending an obnoxious sum on all the fixings for a Thanksgiving dinner for two.  So we went to Famous Dave’s, a chain BBQ joint instead.  They were the only restaurant open that night serving some semblance of a traditional Turkey-day meal.  The meal was mediocre at best and it barely did the job of sating my appetite for all those things I love.  So, when I saw this turkey, this beautiful turkey, going for a song, I tossed it in the basket and planned for New Years Dinner Thanksgiving Redux.  The ‘sell-by’ date was the 31st, so I’d be able to cook it in plenty of time.  For three days, I dreamed of that turkey.  I looked forward to the giblet gravy.  I planned on putting dried cranberries into the stuffing (dressing?) and eating the leftovers in a gluttony of sandwiches and potpies and casseroles and stews.  I could see that bird and fairly taste it, steaming and golden brown on my table.  I was excited.

But it was not to be so.

When I opened the plastic wrapping , out crept a fetid stench so vile I was worried for a second that my hangover was attempting a second coming.  It wafted up and forced its way into my nasal cavity, burning the protective hairs and embedding itself in the mucosal lining.  The Old Man looked at me, and I looked at him and he silently lifted the waste bin up to the level of the sink.  Without a word, I dropped that 17 pound bird into the bin and he walked it right out to the complex dumpster; all dreams of a juicy bird with crispy skin dashed among the rocks of my stinginess.  Even now, hours later, I’m mourning its loss.  Writing to you about it rather than something more IMPORTANT.

Yes, friends, meat is expensive.  Organically grown meat even more so.  But even though I saved $30, I still wasted $8 and have nothing to show for it.  It’s true, so true:  You only cry once when you buy quality.

Blast and drat.

The turkey was bad.

Its smell destined for garbage,

And not my table.

Travel

The Prompt:

How did you travel in 2010? How and/or where would you like to travel next year? (Author: Tara Hunt)

Oh reader, your faithful narrator just doesn’t have it in her today to tell you about her year’s travels.  I feel as if I’ve already kicked that dead horse a couple of times too many for our beloved Reverb10.  However, being as yesterday was my BEST DAY YET (!!) for readership, I have a feeling that many of you are new to my corner of the blogosphere.  If “Yes!  I am!” is your response, then I encourage you to look HERE, and HERE (or even HERE if you like pictures) so you’ll know that I really have already answered and am not just copping out to suit my own needs.

That said, fret not.  I shan’t leave you with a metaphorical hard-on or a reader’s equivalent of blue balls.  Instead of re-answering today’s prompt, I shall regale you with a tale of my latest runaround with that Testament to Inefficiency: The United States Postal Service.

The scene opens around about the beginning of November, when I was scouring the interwebz for a dress suitable for a semi-formal Holiday party.  Dancing with a whim, I got it into my mind that what I really wanted was something with LOTS OF SEQUINS.  A couple of days search lead me to the PERFECT DRESS on my favorite website for all things vintage and neat-o: Ebay.  My first clue that this particular buying experience was going to go gloriously awry appeared at the outset.  Upon viewing my Paypal account, I was dismayed to find that I was charged a significant amount more than I’d bid for this item (a beautiful Tory Birch minidress covered in chocolate colored sequins).  It was a split second before I hit “send” on a terse letter to the seller that I realized that the Idiot Award would actually be going to me:  I had not realized that I’d been bidding in British pounds and not my own native currency.  BLAST!  (For the record, pulling the trigger before actually reading the fine print is a classic bit-o-Jen.)

The damage done, I paid my bill and let the seller know that I’d need the item for a Holiday party three and a half weeks into the future.  She assured me that she’d have it out the next day.  ”Right-o”, she said (no, really, she actually typed “Right-O”) and I began my eager wait.  Well, as you may have already guessed, three and a half weeks IS NOT EVEN CLOSE to enough time to allow for the USPS, holiday traffic, the Royal Mail Service and International Customs. The Christmas party came and went (with me relegated, sadly, to a previously worn, assuredly NOT AWESOME and NOT SEQUINED holiday frock) and so did my move to another apartment.

About a week ago, I began an inquiry into its progress.  Now please, follow closely, but don’t expect to understand.  I certainly don’t:

I tracked the package with the USPS, whose representatives told me that they hadn’t received it yet, please contact the seller.  I contacted the seller, who contacted the Royal Mail service whose representative said that the USPS definitely had it, please contact the recipient (that’s me).  I followed up with the USPS who told me that they couldn’t give me any information (on MY package!) until the seller opened an “Official Inquiry”.  I contacted the seller, who had already done that, who recontacted the Royal mail, whose representative then said that the package had been signed for in the States, but they couldn’t say by who for “Security Purposes.”  I recontacted the USPS, who said that yes, the package HAD INDEED arrived, but they couldn’t tell me where, or who signed for it for “Security Purposes”, that the seller would need to open an “Official Inquiry”.  Sound familiar yet?

Well, after the second “Official Inquiry” we were told that the package had arrived in a neighboring city.  Fast forward to today, when I visited the post office in that city to pick up my package.  It took an hour for me to find out the following: Somehow, my package was sent to a very old address in the city we moved from early last spring.  From there, the package was forwarded to a PO box that we’d opened pending finding a place to live.  When the package arrived at the PO box, it was discovered that we no longer had that PO Box and it was forwarded to the address of the place we moved to.  There, the USPS discovered that there were no occupants, so instead of forwarding it to the new (my current) address, they sent it back to the post office where the PO box WAS.  The staff there realized that we had a forwarding address, so they started the forwarding process.

The best part about this?  All of the above is a GUESS.  No one actually KNOWS where my package is at this very moment.  We have to “wait and let the process play out.” (?!?!?!?!?!)

Well, “What about those tracking numbers and scans that the post office does for certified, tracked mail?” you ask.  ”There must be a central database that uploads a package’s location when it’s scanned.”  Yes, that would make sense.  But, NO, THERE ISN’T.  No central database,  no way to contact the carriers, no estimate when there COULD be an answer.  Somewhere, floating around in the Postal Ether, travels a lone sequin minidress crying out for an owner, its arms limply crumpled in a useless ball.  And here I sit, blogging out my frustration, wondering what the cuss a tracking number is for if not for TRACKING A CUSSING PACKAGE.  In the spot-on verbiage of the train wreck that is Amy Winehouse, I’m wondering:  Whaaaaaat kind of fuckery is this????

And, Iceland.  I think I want to travel to Iceland this coming year.