It has been said that there are three major classifications of
inanimate objects: things that break down, things that get lost,
and things that no one ever expects to work. I’d like to add a
fourth category: things that drive you crazy.
It has been said that there are three major classifications of inanimate objects: things that break down, things that get lost, and things that no one ever expects to work. I’d like to add a fourth category: things that drive you crazy.
Let me explain. My mom is a big fan of cuckoo clocks. Now, for those of you lucky few who aren’t familiar with them, they’re an exceptionally expensive and annoying kind of clock, usually birdhouse-shaped with a mechanical bird that pops out of a tiny door and enthusiastically announces “cuckoo-cuckoo,” at about 85 bazillion decibels every hour, causing you to either jump out of your chair, drop your drink or have a heart attack.
As far as gifts go, my mom isn’t an easy person to shop for, so when she asked for a cuckoo clock it all seemed simple enough.
That’s when I discovered two important things about cuckoo clocks: 1) quality ones are about the same price as a new sports car, and 2) most of the cuckoo clock shops on this planet are in Germany.
However, I didn’t let this bit of knowledge stop me. Instead I did what any savvy and sophisticated shopper would do: searched the Internet for a cheap knock-off.
And, lo and behold, I found one, and wonder of wonders, it was on sale. The only drawback was that when it arrived, a week later, instead of getting a smallish, quaint clock, I got a hideous looking one about the size of a phone booth. Okay, yes, so maybe I’m exaggerating a bit. But still.
And before you start thinking, “Why didn’t you check the size, dummy?” Let me just say, it didn’t look like that online. Oh sure, it said something about feet and inches and all that, but who really pays attention to all that stuff anyway?
So I shipped it back and exchanged it for the smaller size, which arrived triumphantly on Christmas morning. And I’d like to say I delivered her gift and everyone was happy and that was the end of it. But it wasn’t. Little did I know that this only marked the beginning of a long line of cuckoo clocks whizzing back and forth through the United Parcel Service that were, according my mother, either “too loud,” “too soft,” “slightly chipped,” “unevenly stained,” or they “didn’t sound real enough.” Now, the first few problems I can understand, but tell me, how real is a plastic bird coming out of a wooden clock supposed to sound anyway?
The final straw came last week when the UPS delivered to me … wait for it … the original giant cuckoo clock. Which, I might add, I now hate with the passion of a thousand burning suns.
Now it seemed to me I had three choices, none of them particularly appealing except for the third one which, while emotionally gratifying, was rather violent and financially impractical. So I chose number two, which was to bring it to my mom’s apartment when she wasn’t home, hang it up, and run away and consider moving to another country, preferably one without cuckoo clocks.
And, yes, I admit, this isn’t a particularly brilliant or mature plan, but, hey, it was the best I could come up with.
But, deep down, I never thought it would really work. So imagine my surprise when my mom called and said, “Thanks for the new clock. It’s gorgeous! Say, why didn’t you get that kind in the first place?”
Now, there are a lot of things I could’ve said. But, being a good daughter, all that came out was, “You’re welcome.”
Sometimes, it’s best that way.
Debbie Farmer is a humorist and a mother holding down the fort in California, and the author of Don’t Put Lipstick on the Cat. You can reach her at
fa********@oa***************.com
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