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Memorandum

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To: You, the Filthy, Disgusting Citizens of America
Re: Your use of public trash receptacles

Listen up, scumbags.

In March I obtained employment with a major national retailer, in a role whose duties include emptying the trash cans posted at the entrances and exits of the store every evening. I don’t plan to make this a long-term bullet on my résumé, and I don’t presume to speak for the everyday heroes of municipal sanitation and janitorial services who have quite literally seen some shit and who almost certainly deserve more than they’re being paid.

But I am here to speak for the wage-earners who deal with your casual, thoughtless, careless attitude toward any of your trash that anyone but you has to deal with. And that includes kids in fast-food and convenience jobs who are getting paid about half of what I’m making. And no, you don’t get to use “It’s good for them, builds character” as your bullshit defense for making their menial jobs more insufferable.

No one’s asking you to do their job for them, only to do your small part to make their job less of a shitshow. Be a mensch. Use your head. Be part of the solution. It requires less time and effort than you imagine.

And so, a few things for you to consider and file away for future reference:

The Bags
A lesson in simple economics: When Hefty or Glad markets any of their durable, super-strong, high-quality garbage bags for home use, they are selling you, the domestic consumer, security, because they know you are willing to pay for it. And all you’re hoping to do is successfully transport your trash 40 feet to the end of the driveway and not offend your neighbors or the HOA.

Companies aren’t like that. Companies are constantly looking for corners and costs to cut so they can provide more value to their shareholders. So when they purchase garbage bags in bulk quantities, 50 to a perforated roll, 36 rolls to a case, they’ll sacrifice half a mil or more in thickness here and there, because paying a lower unit cost by a few cents now will save them dollars down the line. So the industrial-size bags used by industry aren’t exactly industrial-strength — they’re voluminous enough to hold a lot of trash in theory but not strong enough in actuality to hold the kind of trash industrial-strength maggots like you, their customers, tend to throw away on their premises.

Extreme examples: On a recent shift, some asshole threw an unpackaged circular-saw blade into one of our trash cans. Obliterated the fucking bag, which fortunately wasn’t full when I discovered it and therefore easily swapped out. No, the bag that was full — just moments later — was the one into the bottom of which someone (probably a co-worker) had thrown shards of broken glass which, under pressure from above, completely trapdoored the bag when I lifted it, sending the shards everywhere and requiring me to rebag the broken bag of garbage and double-bag the glass I swept up, the latter of which should have been done to begin with.

Speaking as one who deals with the literal fallout of your misplaced faith in or disregard for thin, cheap plastic: Truly, we won’t mind if you just place any sharp, pointy, heavy or oversize items beside or behind the receptacle if it is safe to do so. We’ll deal with it accordingly and thank you for not springing a trap on us in the form of another mess we have to clean up.

Your Beverages
This is a not-so-extreme example, because it occurs in virtually every bag of trash I’ve handled since I started this job.

Stop throwing your unfinished beverages in the trash. Liquid adds weight and density to the confines of the bag, and in many instances it isn’t going to stay in its cup, which means it goes directly to the bottom of a bag which is otherwise primed to burst at one weak point or another. Here are a few handy guidelines:

  1. Stop buying beverages larger than your bladder or which you have no intention of finishing. When a fast-food joint or convenience store offers you a ludicrous amount of liquid at a low price, stop thinking about value and ask instead, “How thirsty am I, really?”
     
  2. Pour out any beverage you don’t or can’t finish, preferably in an area that people don’t have to walk through. Pour it out in the parking lot, in the street, near a curb, on a landscaped median. Better yet, if you’re near an open area free of people, pets or cars, throw it, scatter the liquid and ice rather than creating a puddle someone might walk through. Do this so you can just throw away an empty cup.
     
  3. Remove your lid and straw and throw them away separately. Particularly your straw. Throw a straw in the trash, and its full length flexes and bends against the pressure of the other trash in the bag. Leave one-third or one-fourth of a straw sticking out the top of a secured cup lid, and it becomes a spike that will inevitably puncture the bag and spill liquid and God knows what else everywhere.
     
  4. Breaking down your cup to its component parts (and crushing your cup) is also more space-efficient.
     
  5. Speaking of which, bottled water — which you shouldn’t be drinking as much as you do, because plastic, however much convenience it adds to our lives, is contributing to the slow-motion destruction of our environment, and your municipal water is typically cleaner and more delicious than you imagine — is often sold in crushable bottles that collapse to take up less space. So crush them after you empty them, or if at all possible, hold onto them to recycle later. Soda cans, too.
     
  6. I mention that last point because, for all their good intentions and talk of conservation and sustainability initiatives, companies like my employer don’t always have the space and resources on site to accommodate proper, comprehensive recycling. We’re sending a lot of stuff to landfills that you might more easily recycle at home through municipal services that your tax and public-utility dollars already pay for.

Indifference
Of course, all of this assumes that you insensate savages even bother to use the trash receptacles at all. As many of you as not use parking lots as trash cans and ashtrays, and while, as of this writing, I haven’t seen ours used as a toilet per se, one of you jagoffs left a soiled diaper in a shopping cart the other day, just roiling out in the noonday sun. Which, oddly, made me recalibrate my anger toward the dipshit who left a full, open, single-serve dish of uneaten coleslaw just sitting there on the apron in front of a parking space one day.

Also — and I can’t think of a better way to put this — don’t leave behind garbage that has no logical reason to be in the venue where you discard it. I realize that at the most basic level, it’s all just run-of-the-mill garbage, but don’t force me to consider questions of motive and opportunity like I’ve come across your trash at a crime scene.

Did the perp(s) who left a six-pack of Stella Artois empties really come to our parking lot just to knock back a few brews?

And who discarded a half-eaten rotisserie chicken (in its lidded container, thankfully) in the small trash can at one of our checkout registers inside the store? Who does something like that in public, in a durable-goods establishment that is nowhere near a restaurant, grocery store or mall food court? I mean, I see a lot of drive-thru fast-food refuse in our trash cans, and I get that: Someone grabs a burger and fries while running errands and tosses their containers when they reach our store. But a rotisserie-ass chicken from a grocery deli? Who in pluperfect fuck are you?

And another thing: Stop smoking. At the very least, stop smoking in public. It’s fucking disgusting. It’s slowly killing you. And at minimum it’s grossly offensive to the rest of us you’re also slowly killing with your secondhand smoke. And you toss the butts everywhere, and guess what: They’re not biodegradable. So just fucking stop it, OK? Asphyxiate yourself at home, litter your own driveway, and leave the rest of us out of your end-of-life planning.

I wrote recently about the dignity of work and my sense that no job should be beneath me if it means earning a steady wage and paying my rent until something bigger, better and more suitable to my talents and experience comes along. And I believe that. All things being equal, even collecting your garbage wouldn’t be so awful if I could just tie off a bag, replace it with an empty bag, and cart the full bag away without repercussions.

But you thoughtless, vile troglodytes need to consider the dignity of the people doing that work, picture them on the receiving end of that trash bag. Better yet, picture yourself on the receiving end. Maybe you imagine that I’m overthinking — idealizing — something as lowly, menial and literally disposable as garbage. But do my job for three days (or three weeks, or three months) and you’ll overthink it too.

If you think about it all, that’d be a good start.

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Written by Shepcat

May 9, 2019 at 1:28 am

Posted in Life, Work

A Tale of Two Men

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Monday I met a gentleman, 75 years old, who was aging-movie-star handsome — I mean disarmingly, unsettlingly so. Lean, angular, with thinning silver hair combed straight back, and a neatly trimmed mustache on a face lined only at the corners of his clear blue eyes. His was the face of a man who had never smoked, had never drunk to excess, and, most importantly, had discovered the importance of a sunscreen and moisturizing regimen years before any of his peers caught on.

He bent my ear for a few minutes and as he spoke I tried to place who he reminded me of, but I still can’t summon a proper analog. Maybe … some combination of Christopher Plummer and Terence Stamp, but thinner, wiry, and assuming that combination had aged as well as Paul Newman while maintaining Richard Farnsworth’s pleasant, easygoing demeanor. I don’t know. That’s all I’ve got. He’s a cipher.

Most striking about this man, though, were his hands. In the starkest contrast to his face, these were the most gnarled, abused hands I have ever seen. I have the delicate hands of a typist that aspire to be the hands of a boxer, but I’ve known men whose hands display the wear and weather of lives spent performing manual labor — of houses built, of cars repaired, of freight loaded; taut, calloused, sandpapery — and none of them had hands like this man’s.

This gentleman had been an aerospace machinist for 33 years, half of that at Boeing. His fingers and nail beds were darkened in a way that implied not that he had been working on something greasy or dirty that morning but that he had resigned himself years ago to never being able to scrub away the stain of his labor. Most of his knuckles were split open, like dark craters at the joints of his fingers. His hands didn’t look like they had operated or repaired machines for three decades so much as engaged them in fierce mortal combat.

I erred on the side of holding his piercing, youthful gaze just so he wouldn’t catch me staring in wonder at his hands. What little I pieced together about his life in our few minutes together — “I wanted to do something different, but my wife kept having kids” is the line that stuck with me — were details that I could almost reconcile with his leading-man-in-twilight face. But there’s an entire biography that someone should write about that man’s hands.

Written by Shepcat

April 9, 2019 at 12:12 pm

Posted in Life, The PNW

The Dignity of Work

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Last Saturday night on the swing shift I singlehandedly — my hands, my arms, my back, no mechanized or human assistance — loaded 27,000 pounds of freight onto two outbound trailers.

That’s a sentence I never imagined I’d write. That’s an accomplishment that can never be taken away from me. But it nearly broke me.

After only three days on a job billed as “light industrial work,” I quit the following Monday because, at 51, a generally sedentary person coming off a year-plus of unemployment, my body would need more than a Sunday to recover from the physical toll exacted by that volume of manual labor.

I’ve been blessed with a college education and a professional life spent alternately in office settings, on a studio lot, and in the comfort of my own home. While I’ve often quipped that I’m the laziest person in my family, I also have my father’s work ethic encoded in my DNA, and I’ve never thought of myself as looking down on manual labor. I’ve even done a little of it in the past, but not enough to prepare me for the situation I entered last week, a little misguided and misinformed, when after a long layoff I decided to reach out for any kind of work I could obtain to be back among the gainfully employed again.

It’s an idea I began taking more seriously last fall when actor Geoffrey Owens, formerly of The Cosby Show, was “outed” by the Daily Mail and Fox News for taking a job at Trader Joe’s to make ends meet between his acting and teaching gigs, sparking a national conversation about the dignity of work. Shortly thereafter, my brother took a seasonal job with UPS, assisting a driver on a daily delivery route, to help pay the bills during a fallow period in his own line of work.

I know I should have explored these other, blue-collar options sooner. The main reason I didn’t is that at my age, I may be entering last-chance territory in terms of finding the kind of job at which I excel, at which I have experience, and which I might see myself doing for the rest of my professional life. During this search I have already been shunned for being “overqualified,” which is another way of being told either that I’m too old or that I might expect a higher salary than an employer is willing to pay when they can hire someone younger on the cheap.1

So I felt fortunate, at the time, to have landed that so-called light-industrial job before real panic could ensue about my finances and day-to-day necessities. Again, though, I was unprepared for the reality of the work itself, and while I adjusted and adapted quickly to the environment, it still proved to be work that I was not cut out to do, for reasons both physical and temperamental.

“A man’s got to know his limitations,” goes an old Clint Eastwood line. And there were a couple of occasions on those three nights of work when I consciously pushed myself beyond mine because I wanted to finish the task at hand and make it to the end of the shift. In the end I don’t think my value to the employer would have exceeded those limitations, to the extent that I felt I was doing the job well but too deliberately to be appreciated. It’s work that emphasizes speed and strength more than contributions like my math skills and attention to detail, so I probably did us both a favor by showing myself the door before they did.

As of this writing, I’m awaiting an interview for a white-collar job that I applied for around the same time. I try not to get my hopes up about these things, even though I need to work as much as the next person, but it would certainly help matters if I could land that job and the salary and benefits it offers.

And if not that job, perhaps there’s another one on the not-too-distant horizon — even a blue-collar job — to which my abilities are better suited. Because I can say now, with a little more clarity and credibility than I might have summoned a few weeks ago, that every job matters in this country and moves us all forward — one person, one family, one community at a time — toward the quality of life we all deserve if we work hard and hold up our end of the contract … and employers hold up theirs.
 
 
 
 
 
1 As someone who spends a lot of time scouring job listings online, this is a particular bugbear of mine (there ought to be a law, in fact): Employers, just tell us up front how much you intend or are willing to pay, and let us, the job seeker, decide whether that represents a sufficient living wage for work we might apply for. Then let us stand or fall on our merits alone.

There’s an old line about job interviews: The first person to mention money loses the negotiation. So when advertising for a job, an employer puts a prospective applicant at an immediate disadvantage by asking for their “salary requirements” or “expected compensation,” when it’s just a way for lazy human resources departments to shrink the stack of résumés they have to consider for a particular opening. If you want someone cheap, say so, in no uncertain terms. Employers have all the power to begin with. Don’t put people struggling in a competitive job market in the position of undervaluing their own skills and expertise so they can underbid other applicants for a job you’re too coy, too lazy and too cheap to promote honestly.

End of rant.

Written by Shepcat

February 4, 2019 at 3:08 pm

Posted in Life, The PNW, Work

On Otherness and Empathy

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Take a trip with me, if you will, back to the beginning.
 
 
 
 
 

Written by Shepcat

January 21, 2019 at 4:59 pm

Posted in Life

365 Days: A Maow Story — #5 in a Series

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One year today.

And a quiet, lonesome year it has been.

Maow was the soul of our home, the mouthy, furry, opinionated, playful, scornful, purring, napping still point of my turning world, and not a day passes that I don’t miss her like an amputated limb. She was the long-suffering object of my constant affection, my greatest gift, my sidekick, my backup, my office manager, my supervising editor, my not-so-silent partner, my confidant, essential to the machinery of daily life — and the gears of our little operation have slowed to a grind in her absence.

Because I tend to anthropomorphize and project, and because I had scant prior experience with cats, I used to fret that Maow’s world was so small, confined to the walls of whatever space we lived in or the backyard we occasionally allowed her to roam and forage, that she was a hostage, a prisoner. Then over time I shrank my own world down to fit into hers. Her world became mine.

And before you think it or say it: Yes, I know that was probably unhealthy. That doesn’t mean that it — that she — wasn’t the best thing for me at the time. You can’t convince me that human contact had anything more to offer me. I mean, you’ve met people, right?

In many ways my world is still as small as the one I shared with Maow. I am branching out a little at a time, gradually re-expanding the sphere of my experience, but I am still waiting for the catalyst, the inciting incident, the course-altering event that will point me toward the undiscovered country of who I’m going to be without her.

Of course, Maow is still with me every day. Literally. The tiny pine box that holds her cremains occupies a shelf not 20 feet from where I spend most of my time — which is to say where we spent most of our time together those last two months.

She pops up frequently in Facebook and Instagram memories, and rare is the day that Adriane or I don’t have a picture of her to share with each other. I admit to feeling cheated on those pictureless days, but I have also had at any given time as many as 16 open browser tabs in which I’ve saved various ones for quick reference. (Never mind the voluminous archive of Maow photos that is effectively just a few extra mouse clicks away.)

She turns up in my dreams occasionally, as recently as a few weeks ago in fact. And I hope she continues to do so, even though my febrile unconscious mind too often busies itself with improbable architecture and casts of unknowns staging impromptu one-acts cobbled together by whatever’s playing on TV when I fall asleep and whatever I happened to eat or drink that night.

She lives in my waking imagination as well, which is to say I often consider an alternate timeline in which Maow is alive and well and factoring into my decision-making, however unmoored from reality those big-picture considerations might be.

When Adriane and I finally listed the Silent J on the market, I scrambled to find Maow and me a new place to live. The house had been at least twice as much space as we needed, and had I not required the use of the master bathroom, neither of us would have had any reason to climb the stairs.

For the short term, we were downsizing to an apartment, but I had for some time fantasized about — was frankly mildly obsessed with — an unconventional dream house: a converted Quonset hut with a mostly open floor plan of about 1,000 square feet, no stairs to climb, a domain whose breadth Maow could survey with a single sweeping glance. Never mind the unlikelihood of finding an extant one locally or the unreality of my buying a plot of land and commissioning the design and construction of one — if people can live in yurts and igloos and tiny houses, I saw no reason why Maow and I couldn’t have a Quonset hut to call home.

It was not to be, of course, but even now I find myself on walks about town judging the merits and drawbacks of various small ranch homes and ramblers I encounter, considering their suitability for Maow and me. Not some prospective feline to be rescued, adopted and named at a later date, mind you. Maow.

Earlier this year, when I read for the first time Steinbeck’s Travels with Charley: In Search of America, I indulged the equally ludicrous fantasy of hitting the open road with Maow in a Rocinante of our own. Never mind that Maow loathed and distrusted the implications of car travel. I imagined that, appointed with appropriate creature comforts, as it were, a homey enough vehicle would grow on her, and she would gladly divide her time either comfortably ensconced in our cozy living quarters or curled beside me on the front seat as I drove. (Much like my Quonset-hut pipe dream, I imagined cutting a hole in the back window to accommodate a Maow-size airlock connecting the truck’s cab to the camper.)

At one time or another, in one way or another, I’ve failed everyone I’ve ever loved. So when Maow and I became two against the world, she became my last, best hope to love someone without fail or regret.

Over what we did not know at the time was the last year of her life, I left Maow on a few occasions — a fishing trip with my dad and brother; back home again for Christmas; a family wedding in Texas — and I dreaded every departure and hated our every minute apart. Even though the neighbor kid was a kind, attentive and reliable pet-sitter, even though Adriane had bought us a Wi-Fi–connected camera so we could look in on her, I hated the thought of Maow alone in that big house, with no sense of the passage of time, no certainty that I would eventually be coming home to her, even though I always did.

All told we spent about five weeks apart that last year, and even though I spent that time in the company of people I love, I wish I had it all back. I wish I had never left her.

That’s exactly the kind of monster I am. Now you know.

Because with an unhesitating degree of certainty I can claim for no one else, I would have run into a burning building for Maow. And at the end, as she became weaker and smaller and the inevitable drew nearer, I would gladly have traded her failing health for that burning building, because it would have meant that I could actually do something for her.

In the end, all I could do was let her go. I hope but will never be entirely convinced that I didn’t fail her in some way. I will never believe I entirely reciprocated all that she gave me. I will always have debits in the ledger. I will always wish I could have done more. I will always wish we had more time together.

Maow was my whole heart. She still is.

Written by Shepcat

November 14, 2018 at 4:05 am

Posted in Continuing Series, Life, Love

Tagged with

A Maow Story — #4 in a Series

with one comment

The hardest part is letting go. Still.

As of this writing, it’s been over four months, but I still find myself forced to let go of Maow in moments that no one else would notice, in ways you’d need a microscope to observe. Which on its face is a ridiculous notion, because she’ll never be gone from my memory or my heart. There’ll always be something to remind me of her.

I have a couple thousand pictures of her on my phone and my computer. I have a little wooden keepsake box that contains her ashes. I have a tiny stoppered bottle that contains the little gifts of dropped whiskers and shed claws that she used to leave around our house, for God’s sake.1 I have one of her squeaky-mouse toys that I withheld from the cache that I gifted to Nani in Hawaii; an ornament bearing her likeness, one of two that a dear friend made and sent to Adriane and me last November; the “It’s All About Maow” sign that my niece gave us one Christmas.

Maow’s carpeted tower still stands in a corner of my apartment as a monument to her absence, atop it her blue harness and leash, and the litter scoop that hasn’t made it into the storage closet with the litter box. There’s even one-third of a bag of litter in the office closet that I haven’t figured out how to dispose of yet. To the casual observer, the existence of these durable capital resources might appear to be evidence that I’m thinking of getting another cat, but I have no such plans for the immediate or even distant-ish future. There is no particular imperative for my holding on to them.

But again, there is the occasional instance or moment that drops on me like an emotional anvil.

I finally got around one day to clearing some things off the dining table that had been sitting there since November — detritus, really, was all it was. Plastic bags that had contained items the emergency veterinary clinic had sent home with me. Medication that she had never been administered that I needed to dispose of. Paperwork of absolutely no importance.

The thing that broke me was the small, flimsy cardboard box which had protected the tiny wooden box for her ashes. I was about to break it down for recycling when I saw the label on one end that read “Maow Shepherd” — printed entirely for logistical purposes by the crematory, to clarify to whom her cremains were to be returned — which was all it took to unglue me. The idea that she didn’t merely belong to me (though in fact it was the other way around) but that she was a part of me, that she was family, left me flailing in a pool of tears for the rest of the afternoon. I ended up cutting out the labeled panel of the box before recycling the rest.

Later I found in the office a makeshift toy Adriane had made for Maow — a small ring of twine at the end of a string, attached to a long stick, literally a small, straight, sturdy branch snapped off a tree. There seemed no point in keeping the toy, so I dismantled it and decided to toss the stick outside, back into the wild, as it were. Instead of just heaving it off in any random direction, though, I placed it in the grass directly in front of my assigned parking space. I suppose I thought it might be appropriated for fetch by some dog walker who happened to spot it or transformed by the imagination of a child in need of a wand. In any event, I checked for it every time I parked my car or vacated the space, and there in the grass it remained for a month or so, until one day recently it was gone. Not merely relocated, as was revealed by a scan of the immediate area, but gone. And while I’m not emotionally distraught about its sudden absence, I am nonetheless wistful. About a stick.

Finally, I was taking the train into the city last weekend to meet the guys for drinks, and for the first time in a long time I had worn my herringbone topcoat, sort of dressing myself up a bit even though I was wearing jeans and boots. Anyway, I was sitting there with nothing else to distract me when I happened to spy a hair standing out along the hem of the coat. So I plucked it, and even though it could have come from anywhere, it seemed irrefutable to me that it was a cat hair — a Maow hair — that had somehow clung to the wool of the coat for God knows how many months and survived the move and clung there still as the coat hung in the closet in my apartment until this very evening on which I decided to wear it. I held the hair between my thumb and forefinger for the longest time, holding it up to the light, thinking of Maow but marveling at the resilience of the hair itself, that it had somehow arrived at that moment with me.

I knew I couldn’t hold onto it forever. It was too small and the moment too fleeting. I could put it in a pocket or rub it back onto the hem of my coat where I had found it, but the odds of it holding on were even slimmer than my ability to hold onto it in that moment. Even as I held it, I could lose sight of it in the light just by turning my hand a certain way. I knew that my train ride was brief and that I couldn’t will my fingers to remain pinched, and I wasn’t thinking of all the pictures and all the keepsakes and all the evidence of Maow back in my apartment, but only of that moment and that single hair, until I relaxed my hand and suddenly it wasn’t there anymore.

The hardest part is letting go. Of anything.
 
 
 
 
 
1 I’ve always joked with Adriane that I was holding on to Maow’s DNA on the off chance that she could one day be cloned. And wouldn’t you know it — a recent story alleges that Barbra Streisand did just that with one of her dogs that passed away. So maybe now I’m just waiting on the big break that results in an influx of crazy, ultradisposable Streisand dollars.

Written by Shepcat

March 9, 2018 at 12:45 pm

Posted in Continuing Series, Life, Love

Tagged with

Salsa: A Love Story

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Brief backstory: I’m very particular about salsa. I hate chunky salsa. Chunks of tomatoes. Chunks of peppers. No matter how spicy or flavorful it might be, I can’t deal with the mouthfeel. I just can’t.

Enter a small, Kansas City–based, family-owned company that produces a variety of Mexican spice blends, including a salsa mix (in mild, medium or hot) that one adds to a 28-oz. can of tomatoes and blends to one’s desired consistency. In addition to being satisfyingly smooth and spicy, it ends up being a much better value than buying a jar of prepared salsa off the shelf.

I have been addicted to this company’s hot salsa mix for going on a couple of decades now. (Seriously, there are times when I literally have to force myself to stop eating it, lest I morph into Mr. Creosote in the confines of my own home.) When he was still in the grocery business, my dad from time to time would stick packets of the hot salsa mix in a manila envelope and mail me spicy little care packages from his store. Since he retired, I’ve just been ordering directly from the company and have continued to enjoy my favorite salsa while supporting a locally owned hometown business.

This company regularly returns the favor by throwing in a packet or two of their other seasonings — a veggie-dip mix, a guacamole mix, their taco seasoning, what-have-you — as a thank-you for my business, which I’m delighted to throw their way as long as they keep producing this salsa mix.

So recently I was putting together another order — including some packets of their equally excellent chili seasoning — when I noticed that they offer free shipping for orders over $45. They quote a Priority Mail shipping cost of $11.80, so by my thinking: Why pay shipping when that translates roughly to six more packets of this stuff I love and consume?

So I placed a larger-than-usual order, and now I am stocked with enough salsa mix and chili seasoning to last until the zombie apocalypse. But this particular detail of my order stood out to me.

   

It turns out that the fine people who create and distribute this thing I love — this delicious godsend without which I would wander a desolate purgatory of inferior salsa options — suck at math.

And now I wrestle with a dilemma of Chidi Anagonye proportions: Should I say something? Or should I merely adjust my future orders to account for their terrible postal math? On the one hand, it’s not my place to tell them how to run their business. On the other, if they ever went bankrupt because they couldn’t keep up with rising postal costs — particularly the costs of their own mathematical shortcomings — my life would become, well, chunky. And that would be totally unacceptable.

What’s a finicky salsa addict to do?

Written by Shepcat

February 27, 2018 at 12:49 pm

Posted in Kansas City, Life