Dear Friends:
This is a test. Round about 11:30 this fine summer morning, I got into Chico and headed downtown with two goals in mind: first, to get me a mushroom sandwich and a cup of watermelon gazpacho, and second, to get fingerprinted. Fun Fact #1: I have been fingerprinted twice this week, for two completely unrelated reasons. On my way to the freeway, I passed a garage sale in my neighborhood. I’m not generally inclined to buy other people’s garbage, but today was different. Magical, even. Because there, at the end of the driveway, was something that had obviously been placed there especially for me: a wheelbarrow. You see, I have need of a wheelbarrow. How we’ve managed to get by in this house for two years without one, I don’t know. I finally admitted this need a couple months ago when I had to move mulch from the driveway using a snowshovel. (One of the far-too-many occasions when I thought to myself: the neighbors must think i’m a complete dumbass, even though i’m secretly a genius due to my practical ingenuity, which they are obviously too stupid to recognize). Do you have any idea how much wheelbarrows cost? A lot. For the price of just one wheelbarrow, I can buy 16 coffees at Dunn Brothers. I can buy two copies of ‘Purple Rain’ on DVD at Target. I can keep an entire village full of poor children in graham crackers and Kool-Aid for over a month. I can buy just one ironic tshirt at Len Druskin, but it’s still totally worth it, although questionably of more value than a wheelbarrow. Also, when you purchase your wheelbarrow, you have to pay to have it assembled, or do it yourself. Since the only items I’m willing to put together myself are those that come with a hex wrench and easy-to-follow pictograms labeled in world’s 40 commonest languages, this increases the cost of the wheelbarrow even further. I admit that I was mistaken when I wrote yesterday that it was the best day of my life. Yesterday, I did not have a wheelbarrow. Today, I do. For the rock-bottom price of $5, it was mine. I didn’t even bother to haggle. I handed over my five bucks and asked the very attractive ladies behind the makeshift cash register in the carport if they would hold it for pickup, as it would not fit in my trunk, and I was in a rush to obtain my sandwich and fingerprints. I told them that I would return that very afternoon to claim my purchase, and they agreed to conceal it behind their fence, to prevent others from laying their lustful, greedy hands upon it without my consent. And so, I was happy. Later that day, having finished all my work, then realizing that everyone at the coffeeshop was far more boring than I could tolerate any longer, I headed back home. I parked, then set off on foot to retrieve my wheelbarrow. Ever impatient, I decided to run the three blocks to the garage sale house. After two blocks, I stopped to acknowledge the sheer idiocy of running in 90-degree weather, and walked the rest of the way. As I watched the even-more-attractive man of the house deliver my wheelbarrow from the backyard, I recalled the wise and timely words of Police Chief Clancy Wiggum: That’s a mighty fine barrow. Yes, indeed. And only $5! I quickly discovered that my new wheelbarrow was in need of some WD-40. It was kind of hard to push, and produced a low-grade squeal as I propelled it down 66th Street. I decided that this was a new sport, possibly even Olympic, and named it ‘resistance walking’. Fun Fact #2: I can make an Olympic sport out of any activity. It’s better than admitting that what I’m doing is pointless and/or stupid. Some of my favorites lately include the ‘insulin-shock death march’ and the ’emergency highway ass-dry’. Since I was unable to practice my sport and dodge rush hour traffic without severely endangering my person, I had to walk an extra block to cross at the stoplight. I waited, and waited, and then I waited a while longer. Finally, the light changed, and I proudly wheeled my barrow in front of no less than five thousand impatient commuters, who took the time out of their busy day to marvel at my luck and frugality, not to mention my budding gold-medal ambitions. Doubtless they were envious and a little ashamed, but, they, too, would have had the same opportunity to purchase this fine wheelbarrow, had they just been a little more jobless and a little less hurried. Menaced by a garbage truck and scorched by the blazing sun on the mean streets of Richfield, Minnesota, I was not to be put off. I was going to see my wheelbarrow delivered safely into my garage, no matter what it took. And I did just that. Then I took off my pants in the kitchen. Because, dammit, it was something like a million degrees outside, and I was that kind of uncomfortable damp that only comes from training for a newly-invented Olympic event with a $5 garage sale purchase. I’m sure you know exactly what I mean. So, I guess what I’m trying to say with all of this is that today was a big win for me, and I hope that you can share in my satisfaction. Not so much because of my bargain find, but because I got you to read a thousand-word essay about a wheelbarrow, for god’s sake. Suckers.Jenni