Lori Borgman

We often homeschool three of our grands on Tuesdays while their mother works. We’re not sure if we are the ones “schooling” or the ones “getting schooled.”

We don’t do a lot of instruction per se. We’re thinking there may be some trust issues involved. Our primary job is to keep order, check their work, review assignments, quiz them on various subjects and provide food. We excel at that last one.

Sometimes our pupils turn the tables and have us take their quizzes to see how we do. I recently received a lackluster score on a quiz on stars and planets. I had the right answers in general but did not use proper textbook terminology.

Po-tay-to. Po-tot-o.

I demanded a retest but was told that’s not how the system works. I hope this doesn’t go on my permanent record.

Our real strength may be supplemental education: Driveway basketball, planting peas, onions and garlic, baking blueberry crumb coffeecake, bird identification and yard maintenance. We are not above taking advantage of free labor.

We also tend to do well in history, no doubt because we have lived great swaths of it. We put the “old” in Old School. They are all voracious readers, so we often discuss biographies and history, frequently taking unexpected sideroads.

The other day I asked if any of them knew why Lady Justice was blindfolded. I found a picture of Lady Justice on my phone. They passed it around, studied it, pondered it, then replied.

The oldest said, “I think it has something to do with race. She doesn’t want to see if someone is black or white, because we used to have slavery. Or she doesn’t want to see if someone is attractive or unattractive.”

Not bad, not bad at all.

The second one, the lively free-thinking, meandering one in the group, said, “She doesn’t want to see the inside of people’s business, or personal things people do because there are bigger things to take care of than being in someone else’s business. Keep your nose on your own face.”

Our future libertarian has spoken.

The youngest, thoughtful and pensive, softly said, “She doesn’t want to see all the annoying conflicts where wrong is bigger than right.”

I explained Lady Justice is blindfolded to represent the idea that justice should be unbiased and not influenced by a person’s appearance. This seemed like a good wrap to our school time, but somebody wanted to revisit whether Jupiter or Saturn has more moons.

We wouldn’t want to be schooling kids every day, but we enjoy our occasional roles proctoring and teaching, delving into decimals, fractions, demonstrative and possessive pronouns, the galaxies, and a smidge of political philosophy.

A resounding thud echoes in the driveway indicating we have now moved on to physical education.

Oh, the correct answer to which planet has more moons? Jupiter.

Standby snack foods have been reinventing themselves as “minis” in hopes of appealing to a new generation of consumers. Hostess down-sized Ding Dongs, Doritos ran all the chips through the dryer and Trix dehydrated every last cereal ball.

Naturally, you ask, “Does a smaller-size product come with a smaller price?”

Don’t be ridiculous. It is the principle of “less for more.”

I added a few of the new minis on a grocery pickup to have a taste see. The usual lineup of food tasters eagerly assisted.

Dorito minis were immediately pronounced “adorable” by young tasters. Isn’t adorable the first thing you want in food?

“How would you like your steak? Rare, medium or adorable?”

Adorable! I’ll take adorable.

Doritos minis are adorable—tiny triangles about the size of a quarter, packaged in what appears to be a Pringles can plastered with a Doritos label. Many minis were broken. It’s like eating a can of crumbs. The good news is a serving of minis is 39 chips (or 178 crumbs).

Tell you what – send me your empty Pringles cans, I’ll recover them with appropriate labels, fill them with crumbs from our full-size Doritos bags, and charge three times what they do at the store.

“Honey! I think our ship has finally come in.”

Honey is not listening; he is contemplating the mini Hostess snacks. Downsized Ding Dongs are now Bouncers.

Hearing the name Bouncers, a 4-year-old grabs one and slams it on the countertop. It tumbles, falls over the edge and rolls a remarkable distance on the kitchen floor.

“It doesn’t bounce—it rolls!” she squeals.

Note to self: Call Hostess and tell them Bouncers should be called Rollers.

Mini is not new. Mini Nilla Wafers predate flip phones. Instead of eating smaller cookies and consuming less, what did cooks do? Used them as crusts for mini cheesecakes.

Adorable!

Mini chocolate chips have been on shelves for years as well. They are great in cookies and desserts but slip through your fingers if you eat them out of your hand. I’m not saying I do that; I’ve just heard others complain about it.

Truthfully, I fully embrace the mini concept. In order to “mini”mize my time in the kitchen, I’ve tried pulling off mini meals as full meals ever since the kids left home.

“Dinner’s on,” I tell my better half.

“The salad looks good,” he says, glancing around the kitchen. “Is there more?”

“Salad is the dinner,” I say cheerfully.

His face does not say adorable; his face says disappointment.

I’ve even applied the mini principle to baking cookies, using a small-size cookie scoop. I get mixed reviews on this one.

“I love these, Grandma,” a little voice says. “They’re perfect for a tea party with dolls.”

Someone else, wielding a cookie in each hand, asks if the Seven Dwarfs are coming for a visit.

“No, but if they do, I’ll be prepared.”

Size the food mini or maxi, the magic is always the same – now you see it; now you don’t.”

Our son called the other day and said, “Do you remember what you always used to tell me when I was growing up?”

My mother’s heart nearly pounded out of my chest. This was unbelievable. He actually remembers something I used to say. This is a lifetime high in a mother’s life because when you are in the active stage of mothering you are pretty sure every single thing you say goes in one ear and other—like a wind tunnel.

My only hope was that the wind tunnel would occasionally fritz out and something would stick. I didn’t care what. Something. Anything.

Now here he is, 41, married, father of five, gainfully employed, making a FaceTime call that keeps breaking up to ask if I remember what I used to tell him all the time as a kid.

Tissue, please. Oh, just give me the whole box.

If only someone else was in the room to witness this.

What was it he remembers? What was it I used to tell him over and over?

I used to say, “Muddy boots stay in the garage.”

“When I say, take a shower, I mean take a shower, don’t just run the water and make me think you’re taking a shower!”

“No more live snakes from the creek in the aquarium.”

“Open a door for a woman, even if she smacks you.”

“Choose your friends wisely.”

“As you grow older, the less you answer to us and the more you answer to God.”

He was trying to show me something with the camera, but the call kept breaking up.

He hung up, called back and the signal finally held.

“What was it I used to tell you?” I asked.

“Remember? You used to say if I could catch it, I could keep it,” he replied.

It was ringing a bell. Actually, it was setting off alarms.

I did often say, “If you can catch it, you can keep it.”

Just as there are indoor dogs and outdoor dogs, there are indoor boys and outdoor boys. He was an outdoor boy. He chased rabbits, squirrels, chipmunks, deer, wild turkeys and I cheered him on, “If you can catch it, you can keep it!” The boy stayed outdoors for hours at a time, sometimes even days, running his heart out, chasing wildlife.

He was exhilarated thinking he could bring home any animal he could catch, and I enjoyed knowing he had no chance of catching a wild animal with his bare hands.

“Well, it finally happened,” he says, panning the camera down to a tiny gray squirrel nestled in his gloved hand.

It was a little guy with big beady eyes and a fluffy gray tail, gnawing on a nut it held with its teeny tiny paws. It was adorable. It also had fleas which is why he said he had to hang up to give it a flea bath.

The baby had been abandoned and couldn’t have fallen into better hands.

The entire family took turns adoring Chip for an afternoon, then Chip was taken to a wildlife sanctuary the next day.  It was good they were able to part with him before they made a bed for him in the house and set a plate for him at the dinner table.

It was a short dream, but a dream come true. It may have been a dream come true for the squirrel, too. The sanctuary he went to is named “Utopia.”

The verdict is still out on whether this is good news or bad news, but many of the pants for women this season have wide elastic waistbands.

The part of me that loves big family dinners, Saturday morning donut runs and summer cookouts with barbecue and potato salad says, “Yeah baby! Let’s do this!”

Another part of me, the part that doesn’t just step over the bathroom scale but actually on top of it from time to time, says, “Whoa, Momma!”

For me, wide elastic waistbands say, “Go ahead, have seconds.”

Sometimes they say even crazier things like, “Have another dessert,” or “Ask for whipped cream.”

Clothes were meant to be a safeguard. And not just against overexposure. Pants with zippers, and waistbands with buttons and snaps, serve as a physical, and sometimes uncomfortable, reminder that the calories are mounting.

If my waistband doesn’t remind me, who will?

I’ve long owned pants with a wide elastic waistband—they’re workout pants. In theory, they are for bending, stretching, exercising, walking and running, something more vigorous than sitting at the kitchen table with a bowl of ice cream. Although, they work well for that, too.

But now we are encroaching on an era when comfy, stretchy workout-style pants become everyday pants—although by different names.

There are dress pants labeled “solid loose.” It sounds like an oxymoron, but you don’t have to define it, you just have to wear it.

Then there’s the “endless pant,” which is dubious no matter how you frame it. Or stretch it.

Then there are “air essentials.” I guess those would be pants that breathe in and out with you and require oxygen masks should your plane nosedive.

There is also a continuum ranging from “relaxed waistband” to “loose waistband.” Like the chicken or the egg, who knows which came first.

“Pull-on business casual” pants are also touted as the latest thing. Our youngest granddaughters wear pull-on pants. They’re very happy and easy-going. They are also 5. Maybe everyday pull-on pants would improve my mood.

The most puzzling is the “Spanx stretch twill.”

It almost sounds comfortable, which is ironic because in the early days Spanx was never comfortable. Spanx was painful. Spanx originated as ladies shapewear in the form of a small tube of industrial strength spandex strong enough to catapult a space shuttle to Mars. A woman squeezing herself into a Spanx was similar to a Polar bear squeezing itself through the PVC pipe beneath your kitchen sink.

I was the first to advocate that Spanx come with a caution from the Surgeon General: “Warning: Spanx may cause shortness of breath, lightheadedness, heartburn and the feeling that you are being sliced in two directly beneath the rib cage.”

Now even Spanx has gone comfortable stretch. I guess they loosened up over the years. Haven’t we all.

There were three things our friend Dan loved (besides his wife): a good steak, a good beer and prison.

Dan was a big guy, East Coast with a booming voice, a doctorate in sociology and a law degree. He settled in the Pacific Northwest and lived two blocks from where we lived.

After we moved back to the Midwest, Dan would fly his small plane cross country to D.C. on business a couple times of year, stopping in flyover country to refuel and spend the night.

The small Oregon town he still lived in wasn’t big on red meat, so whenever Dan came to Indianapolis he insisted on taking us out to some of the best steakhouses.

We did not object.

We’d be seated at a fine restaurant, breaking into a warm loaf of bread or enjoying salads, when Dan would boom, “Did I tell you I’ve been to prison again?”

Inevitably, this got the attention of surrounding tables and all the servers. For the rest of the evening, we would have marvelous attentive service.

Dan used to joke that, as a lawyer, after he put men in prison, then he’d go share his faith with them. He did, and far more. He helped with legal matters, transitioning back into communities and securing employment.

The last time we saw Dan, he wanted to tell us about a prisoner with whom he’d been working.

“No,” I said. “I don’t want to know.”

The stories behind the prisoners were often grisly.

Perturbed, he pounded the table, raised his voice another decibel and said, “What? You think God can’t save a guy who did something unthinkable?”

In the ensuing silence, I realized our friend wasn’t just asking about a guy in prison, he was asking about himself, me, everyone in the entire world who has ever crossed a line big or small. It was a test of theology: Can the arms of God ever fall short?

He asked for the same reason I sometimes ask myself—because there are simply days when grace seems too good to be true.

I said, “No, Dan. God can save anybody. He can save a guy in prison; He can save me and He can save you.”

He relented on the details of the crime because I’d leveled the playing field.

The truth is, we were all once sealed behind a wall of wrongdoing. Then on a Good Friday, long ago, that wall was broken down when Jesus Christ died on the cross, was buried and three days later rose again.

This week, Christians around the world celebrate that empty tomb, the life that conquered death, shattered the wall of separation, and set all of us prisoners free.

Dan quit flying and stayed close to home as his wife battled cancer. She was a dear friend from my early mom years. She was a fighter, but the cancer won. One  month after she died, Dan died at home, suddenly and unexpectedly. They’ll be celebrating, too. Not in this world, but in the next, the one far beyond human reach and imagination.

Our latest car repair put a $1200 dent in our budget. Adding insult to injury, when the husband picked up the car, he opened the door to smell it reeked of cigarette smoke. The console, seats and floors were littered with cigarillo butts, ashes, cracker crumbs and debris.

He asked the manager what happened, and the manager said, “I thought you brought it in like that.”

Truth is, the vehicle was in sorry shape a few weeks ago when we took three grands to visit our son’s brood in the country. They left dirt, mud, sticks, rocks, and even a few chicken feathers in the car.

But there was no smoking—unless they’re putting cigarettes in Happy Meals these days and three little girls were blowing smoke out the back windows.

We cleaned it all out the next day. In my book, happiness is a clean car – probably because our two cars have 100,000 and 200,000 miles on them, and a clean car feels like a new car. We hope to fool ourselves for another 50,000 miles.

The husband was adamant that we dropped off a clean car.

Turns out the repair shop neglected to lock the car overnight and a homeless person took shelter from the rain and the cold. I’ve often wondered where the homeless we see in the area shelter in the biting cold. Now we know. It must have seemed like incredibly good fortune to find an unlocked car.

The smell of smoke and homelessness now permeates the vehicle. Though the shop manager paid to have it detail cleaned, smoke is a stubborn smell to eliminate.

The car smells like a noxious air freshener fused with a chain smoker doused in cheap aftershave. Marlboro meets mint.

The car is sitting in our driveway, windows down, doors hanging open and the back liftgate up. We bring class to the neighborhood.

After viewing the shop’s security camera tapes, the manager found our overnight guest. Tall. Skinny. Early 60s. Female. He said she’s a regular at a nearby strip mall, comes in his shop about once a month, grabs a coffee and talks to herself.  She left a jacket and box of saltines in the car. She’s probably not even aware of that.

You can’t get mad at someone who is wet and cold, incoherent, and lives on cigarettes and crackers.

You can’t get mad at a shop owner who made good on a bad situation, although you might like a word with whoever was supposed to lock the cars left overnight in their lot.

Happiness isn’t really just a clean car. Happiness is having a safe and comfortable place to sleep, food on the table and not being in dire need of mental health care.

The smell in the car is gradually going away; tragically on every count, the problem of homelessness is not.

 

Cleaning the house once a week is part of my DNA from my mother’s side. She cleaned once a week, her mother cleaned once a week, and I have always cleaned once a week.

We’re talking thorough cleaning: toilets, tubs, showers, bathroom sinks, kitchen sink, countertops, appliance fronts, dusting, windexing (that’s a verb for my people), vacuuming, sweeping, emptying trash cans, shaking throw rugs and wet mopping floors.

Clean on Saturday and collapse on Sunday.

My husband came from a more casual line of DNA. My mother-in-law, bless her sweet, sweet heart, was of the “pile it higher and deeper” method, along with the “don’t throw that away, we might need it someday” line of genetics.

My better half’s approach is: Wait.

Wait until the sink is full. Wait until the countertop is covered. Wait until the laundry basket overflows. Wait until you can see a thick covering of dust on a flat surface—then take your finger and write, “Send help!”

Our first argument as newlyweds was about cleaning the house. He said if we cleaned once a week, we would wear out the furniture.

To which I said, “I’ll dust; you vacuum.”

To which he said, “Right after the game.”

Now I’m thinking of amending the thorough cleaning once a week. Who am I kidding? I’ve been on a slow slide for ages and have the dust bunnies to prove it.

The other day, I heard myself say, “We were out of town two nights this week, let’s just wash the pillowcases and not bother with the sheets.” My husband was ecstatic.

I find myself losing enthusiasm for sparkling clean windows. I think about cleaning them, then I think about grandkids coming over and I think, “Why bother?”

My next thought is, “The little ones like playing with spray bottles. Why not let them clean the windows?”

It’s a win win.

I’ve also questioned the frequency with which I wet mop the kitchen floor. The only real answer to that one would be to get a dog, and that’s not going to happen.

Despite visions of my mother holding a cup of coffee in one hand and swiping her index finger through dust on the console with her other hand, I have shifted from “a place for everything and everything in its place” to “casual is nice.”

You don’t slip from top tier clean to hitting the high spots without serious rationalization. I have several ready answers should someone give the place the white glove test.

“I’m busy; I’m still working.”

“We have a lot of grandkids. Don’t judge me.”

“Cleaning products can be bad for the environment. I’m saving the earth.”

“It was a great party. Sorry you couldn’t make it.”

The cleaning gene has weakened in the next generation. It skipped our son entirely, but the girls have a good measure of it. When our oldest daughter was out of college working long hours, she offered to pay her younger sister, who was still in college, to clean her apartment.

She gave her a two-page list of instructions, including specifics on how the vacuum tracks on the carpet should align. Her younger sister cleaned for her once and then quit.

There’s an easy way to permanently solve that vacuum track issue.

Get hardwoods.

Following are a couple of the many delightful emails I received in response to the column on dishes. There are a lot of dish lovers out there!

“A number of years ago, a started a thing (can you call a new habit a tradition?) that has become near & dear to many people.  For just as long, I have been buying the reusable, hard plastic plates, same kind that children’s plates are made of, whenever & wherever I find them on sale.  One day, during a “friends” dinner, I decided to have everyone choose one of my mismatched plates, handed them a Magic Marker & told them to write their name on the back of their chosen plate.  I told them this meant that from that point on, they would always have a seat at our table.  This has become a ritual for both old & new friends alike.

It’s kind of neat to hear from the friends of our kids & grandkids to ask if we still have their plates. They remember when they were little & they got to pick out their plate, & that plate was always there for them whenever they came to visit.  We’ve even had a few of the kids, now all grown up, come over just to have dinner on their plate.  As we’ve gotten older, we’ve been blessed to add so many new friends, & plates, to the tradition.”

Judy N.

 

“I come from a line of dish lovers.  During the pandemic for 15 weeks, two times a week, I posted a different set of dishes on Facebook telling the story of how they came to live in our house…..complete with glass and stemware tales.   Twice a week my husband and I shared a meal on the different sets during those long months.”

Deborah K.

 

“I have eight sets of dishes.  And I live in a 900 square foot house.”

MaryLou R.

 

I love dishes. I realize some people do not love dishes and cannot relate.

I urge you to seek help.

Because dishes nearly always come with history and stories, it can take me 10 minutes to tell a story about one plate before putting it on the table.

The last time I used our wedding china, it took me six hours to set the table.

One of my favorite dishes is an old platter that my dad remembered his mother using when he was a boy. There was a fire in the summer kitchen one year and the platter was one of the few items that survived. Some might think a platter that old and special should sit on a shelf the rest of its life, but I keep it in the rotation with a few other platters. It is a testimony to survival that should be in the company of others, not alone on a shelf somewhere.

My fondness for dishes is magnetic. I don’t even have to look for them; they find me. I once bumped into an old bushel basket in my in-laws’ hayloft. It was stuffed with ruby red plates, cups, drinking glasses and footed pudding bowls wrapped in old newspapers. I asked my mother-in-law about the beauties and she said her mother used them when she hosted card parties. She also said I should take them.

The bushel basket was already sitting next to the car.

Years ago, credit card bills used to come by mail with inserts featuring discount deals on jewelry, watches and dishware. One day, my father-in-law, most at home with paper plates and fast-food wrappers, walks in the house, sets a box on the kitchen counter and says, ” I bought you eight long-stemmed crystal glasses because I have a lot of good meals here.”

I tried to use them whenever he came, and I think he enjoyed that.

When our youngest was in fourth grade, I set a pretty table for her birthday party, including the crystal. As her little friends seated around the table sang “Happy Birthday,” she began singing along. She sang with such gusto that her arms were soon swinging, directing others. Signaling a crescendo for the grand finish with a swoop of her arm, she knocked one of the crystal goblets to the floor.

And then there were seven.

When our twin grandbabies began walking, they were fascinated with the doors to the sideboard that held the crystal goblets. One day I heard a clinking noise, peeked into the dining room and saw one of the twins holding a crystal goblet. Just as my eyes landed on her, her eyes landed on me. She sped off, clutching a crystal goblet in her fat little hand. She glanced over her shoulder, saw me gaining on her and pitched the crystal.

Crystal does not do well when it hits a tile floor.

And then there were six. We’ve held steady at six goblets for some time now and remember the other two fondly.

Dishes were made to be used—old ones, new ones, irreplaceable ones.

I’d rather have a dish chipped and cracked, passed around a table, than have it basking in perfection sitting on a shelf.

I’d rather a dish know joy, robust singing and running from Grandma than be tucked into the shadowy corners of a cabinet.

If a dish is broken because it was in use, that means it lived a good life and died a good death.

 

My grandma could play any song in any key. She was a tiny thing with rounded edges that bounced on the piano bench as she rippled keys up and down the keyboard. The entire piano bounced with her.

That music gene missed me. Yet, undaunted, utilizing a few years I spent on a piano bench, I now give music lessons to children related by blood. I may not be the best teacher, but my rates are good. Free.

The first two students were twin granddaughters, followed by a third, their little sister. A few years later, their younger cousins across town wanted to learn, so then came four and five.

Four and five were followed by protests from their baby sister, who was too young for lessons. She wore a sad puppy-dog face, batted her big eyes until tears spilled down her fat cheeks, and sobbed in her mommy’s arms. It is difficult to always be the last in line.

Her lessons are going well in that she knows her left from her right and can often find middle C. Even Mozart started somewhere.

She was late for her lesson the other day. The older two had finished and it was her turn, but she was nowhere in sight. I waited, shuffled music books, looked at their toy horses lined up in a row, inspected a recently assembled Lego truck and waited some more. As I was about to hunt her down, she appeared around the corner. Rain boots, a long sleeved play dress and pink sweatpants.

“What took you so long?” I ask.

“I had to wash my hands,” she says, climbing onto the bench. “I found a worm outside.”

Her eyes narrow and she says, “It was alive.”

She waits for a reaction, but I am nonchalant, just grateful she washed her hands.

“I picked it up,” she says. She thinks she has me now. Maybe Grandma will scream or run scared straight up a wall.

What did it feel like?” I calmly ask.

Silence. She’s thinking.

“It was soft and hard. The worm was soft, but it had dirt all around it and the dirt was hard.”

I’m the one thinking now. Where is the worm? If it’s in her pocket, how long before it is slung over b flat? I don’t ask.

“Let’s begin,” I say.

She looks at me, looks at the keyboard volume button, then looks at me.

“Don’t,” I say.

This is part of the routine. She wants to crank the volume, but her dad works from home. Lessons are always on the lowest volume setting, much to her chagrin.

“Your shirt looks funny,” I say.

She pulls at the neckline, flips out the tag and announces, “It’s Backward Day.”

Her pants are on backward, too. Her sisters weren’t wearing their clothes backward. She has declared Backward Day on her own.

No, I don’t want to turn my shirt around and wear it backward.

Ten minutes into the lesson and not a single note of “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” has been played. Finally, she taps a pudgy index finger with dirt under the nail on one note at a time with a slow but ever-growing confidence.

“Wonderful,” I say. I pull out a sheet of animal stickers and tell her to choose two. She chooses a pig and a worm.

She disappears yelling, “Mom! I got a worm!”

Mom can figure it out for herself.

 

 

I sometimes wonder what my return rate is on the merchandise I buy online.

I’ve been thinking of asking the Amazon truck to wait while I open the box. It could save us both time and mileage.

It’s not my fault they have incentivized returns. In many cases, you don’t even have to package an item for return. You just stand in line at a UPS behind other people returning things. When it is your turn, you toss the item across the counter to the customer service rep. The rep scans a code and you’re on your way home.

To make another online purchase.

I blame online shopping for my bouts of delusion. Look at clothes on models long enough and you gradually grow oblivious to the hard truth that you are not a model, never have been, never will be, but buy the clothes anyway thinking they will magically look the same on you as they did on the model.

Sometimes I can override my delusion with reality, but the success rate is marginal. For example, I can’t wear white. I look sick in white. If I wear white, people say, “How long were you in the hospital?” or, “You should have your iron tested.”

But now and again, a white shirt online calls my name. I try name-calling back but, occasionally, I buy a white shirt.

Then I return it.

The husband is incapable of making a return. He frowns upon returning things. He is of the “if you bought it, you should be stuck with it.”

On the upside, that could also be a contributing factor to why we will celebrate 45 years of marriage this year.

There was a time when making returns was rare and somewhat unpleasant. You didn’t simply take something back and receive a refund; you had to tell the clerk why you were returning the item. If the clerk didn’t like your story, that clerk would get another clerk and you would repeat the story. The two clerks would confer, you would sweat, they would announce their decision.

Five years in prison.

Not really, but shoppers did not casually return merchandise the way we do today. It was frowned upon, not unlike so many things today that we now consider acceptable, but once frowned upon.

We recently did a small home repair and didn’t need all the supplies we had purchased. I mentioned we could take them back.

The better half protested that we didn’t have a receipt. I said we didn’t need a receipt because they can look it up on our credit card. My life-long non-shopper was stunned.

We went to the big box building supply store and I stepped him through the process. “Give her the merchandise and the credit card and she will process a return.”

Steps 1 and 2 went well, but then he started explaining why we were returning the parts. “We have this upstairs toilet that
runs sometimes . . . .”

The clerk did not care.

“I thought it might be the flush valve, or that little . . . “

The clerk scowled.

He was still telling the repair story—the part about the float rod—when I took him by the arm and said, “She is not interested, but you can tell me the story again on the way home.”

Some returns are still challenging.