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GUESTBOOK

Dear Wes

I was going to email you this little pearl of a story, but I also wanted to share it with my readers, so voila. It's a funny story. Not really 'ha-ha' funny. More like 'I-wonder-how-they-stay-in-business?' funny.

It's about my watch. Our watch. The watch. I usually don't wear it around the house, but if I don't wear it when I go out, I feel naked. So I plucked it from it's usual spot in my jewelry box last Friday and put it on with hardly a glance as I dashed out the door. And yes, I was in my motorized chair, so I did indeed dash.

Later, as I languished by the bleachers watching little league practice, a thought entered my head: we have been here at this "Great Baseball Caper" for at least 109 hours now. Surely the festivities must be nearing a close. A quick glance at the minute hand of my watch revealed that it was a quarter after and that mercifully, practice would soon end.

About 20 minutes or so passed and I was growing faint with the excitement that hung thick in the air. I again checked my watch. Still a quarter after. Still a quarter after? Clutch the pearls, my watch battery is dead! thought I. My mind began to reel and my sight grew dim as one kid finally hit the fucking ball. What. Time. Was. It.

I focused on my breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. This was not just any watch. It's the watch. And it was a dead watch. But it had to be the battery. The battery just needed replaced. OK.

Leaving the practice is a blur. All I could think of was where to take my watch to be resuscitated. I knew WalMart wouldn't replace the battery as I hadn't puchased the watch there. So, as fast as I could dash, I got my watch to a jewelry store.

An inept jewelry store.

They needed to keep my watch overnight to replace the battery. Overnight. For a battery! Have you ever heard of such bullshit?

It gets better.

The next day, the chipper little counter bitch informs me that a new battery didn't fix my stopped watch. That there was an internal problem that they were not authorized by Fossil to work on. That they sold Fossil watches but that my watch...our watch...the watch...had been discontinued and could no longer be purchased. Anywhere. They declared my watch dead.

But I didn't accept that. I couldn't. I denied what they told me. Then I teared up. Then I got angry with a world that lets good watches die. Then I bargained.

Bargain shopped, that is, because while WalMart wouldn't replace the battery for me, they would in fact, sell me the battery to perform the much needed transplant myself.

I am happy to report that the transplant I performed was a rousing success and my watch is happily ticking away. I don't know if the fucking idiots at the jewelry store forgot to pack their battery on ice for transport, or if stupidity is just their claim to fame, but replacing one dead battery with another doesn't typically fix anything.

By the way, the battery number is 362 in case yours ever needs surgery.

~Meg

design by fergie

Bits of fire in the sky push me east back home. I used to live in flames but it's hard on the wings. Choke me. Smoke me. Scare me back. You try but you just can't. I peel the layers in my spare time, and you're easy to see through. I can fly, I've discovered on my own. I may be the lesser butterfly but my wings are just as strong. Who are you to tell me to find a place to land? I may be the lesser butterfly but baby watch me glide.