Farberware, and Stephanie for President

I’ve got quite a few Farberware pots, and they, the company, not the pots, wonderfully, have a lifetime warranty and will give you a new pot if anything happens to yours in the normal course of events. Of late, I had accumulated three pots with cracked or about-to-crack handles, and one lid whose handle had come off entirely. I went to Farberware’s website and found a handy FAQ which told me where to send the items and advised that I obtain a tracking number. I loaded the pots and lid into one of my panniers and trucked them down to work, where they sat on my desk for a week. I walked down to First and Mission one lunchtime to buy a box. I brought my clear packing tape to work and then realized I would need some packing material around the pots, so I thought I’d walk the box back to First and Mission, get them to put some peanuts in it, and then walk it over to the Post Office because I’m a cheapskate and have finally figured out that the mailing place that isn’t the Post Office charges more for shipping.

It rained and rained and rained and finally I decided to break down and take a cab to First and Mission and furthermore just to let them mail the thing. The cab cost me $6, plus I gave the driver a cookie someone had given me that I didn’t want. The shipping cost about $11. I guess the foam peanuts were free. That was less than a week ago. Today a box arrived, full of my broken pots and lid, carefully packed (except the handle that had fallen off is missing), and accompanied by a letter from a company called Meyer that starts, “We are not the manufacturer of the brand of cookware … you sent to us.”

Back I went to the website to get the customer service phone number. I explained the situation to the nice lady. Why did Meyer send me a letter about my Farberware? Why did Meyer send me (almost) all my broken Farberware back? She said that, indeed, Meyer did acquire Farberware in 1997 and was I sure it was Farberware? She implored me to look at the bottom of one of the pans. Was I sure it was Farberware?! Would I look at the bottom?! Good lord, I think I know what my own pots and pans are, except it does turn out they’re RevereWare. Farberware is what my parents had and have. I have owned RevereWare for more than 20 years. I have no Farberware. I don’t know if there’s actually such a thing as RevereWare, written thusly. If there is, that’s probably how it’s spelled now, all together and with a capital letter smack in the middle of it, which used to really disturb me but now I’m used to it.

I’m glad I didn’t scream at the nice lady. Besides doing such a precise and thorough packing job that I’m now unable to get the pots back in the box, Meyer graciously sent me a coupon code for 35 percent off new cookware. That place is full of nice people. They probably think I’m too confused to figure out how to use the coupon. Probably they usually send a coupon for 10 percent, but assumed they were safe sending me one for 35 percent. They didn’t make it for 100 percent, even though they would have seemed even nicer, in case I have a friend who will help me.

On top of that, not five hours ago, I said “nephinate stomanie” when I meant “nominate Stephanie.” “What’s wrong with you?” asked my coworker, squinting at me. I felt pretty good about that, as my brain figured out how to swap interior syllables of two words, not just the beginning or last sound.

It dawned on me that I was getting tired of hearing P. say he spent the day lying in bed staring at the wall and he hopes he dies soon and he wishes he’d have a heart attack, etc. I realized I was thinking, “Poor me, having to do [insert disagreeable task here] when I don’t want to!” It’s one thing if the disagreeable task is externally imposed, but quite a few of them are self-imposed. I do not have to call, virtually every day, someone who makes me feel depressed and irritable. If he were my mother or my father or my sister or my other sister, I’d do it. I’m not going to do it, and so I told him yesterday, probably none too tactfully. The trick now is not to cave in to my own guilt. I must remember what I heard from an Al-Anon member: Failing to please someone is not the same thing as hurting him or her. P.’s essential needs are well met. He could be happy. He is not. I can’t fix it.

Last but not least, I’ve pretty much decided to leave therapy and spend the money on massages instead.