Open Palms

BUTTERFLIES ARE FREE

 

I'm sweating it out. Three weeks ago I called EzDuzIt for two $2 coupons for my dry eye drops. The last of my .0511 oz white plastic dropper will be empty by Friday. This will not be a catastrophe but why does a firm as huge as this one make promises it doesn't keep? Even with the $2 off, one week's supply costs $8. What I am doing today is calling Ez's 800 number and will ask to speak to Mr. Goodman, the president of the firm. I want to give him a mouthful of hell. That will accomplish one thing, my satisfaction.

 

My super market, most likely you have the same kind in Altoona, has weekly specials. Buy one, get one free. In the basket near the thin spaghetti boxes are jars of Morrelli's Spaghetti Sauce.  The label is particularly inviting. The sauce in the jar looks rich, full of peppers. What the heck, I'll buy it, try it, put four in my basket to  use one on the spaghetti and the meat balls I froze last week. Dinner will be a cinch tonight. My mouth already waters. I picture my husband's pleasure when he comes home from work and smells the spaghetti sauce warming.  Harvey and Doris, our teenagers, hold off snacks after school, anticipating a delicious, belly filling meal. The simmering sauce perfumes the house. I have a large bountiful, inviting bowl on the table, full of inviting, crisp veggies and lots of toasty croutons.

 

Donald, my starving husband, digs into the red Vesuvius first. I help Harvey and Doris so they don't make my white dinner cloth red. 'Wow! 'Whoo!' after Donald's first forkful of spaghetti he drops it on his plate, covers his mouth and spits the spaghetti in his napkin. I gasp in horror, know at once the stains won't come out. He manages to cough and advise the kids not to eat any. 'It's too hot, way too hot! Susan, taste this, but take only a tiny taste.' I get the empty jar and go over the minuscule directions. There is no warning. All I can do is dump the whole thing down the disposal. I manage to save the meat balls, nuke jams and string beans just to stave off starving. The unopened sauce jars go back to the super market. The manager tells me I am the only complainer but gives me a refund.

 

In the mail David receives a gift card for two to see a new Fox film, Tuesday 11/1. 'The End' is at Muvicom, ten miles each way for us. It's a traffic mess but we have nothing else to do so go for it. A long line of freebees like us waits impatiently to get in. We manage to get fairly decent seats, sit back and nibble greedily on our $5 bag of popcorn. There is a delay of some kind before the lights go down and the uninviting eight trailers, the big ad offering snacks in the lobby and three different instructions to be considerate, turn off your cell phone are completed.

 

'The End' starts. The invitation had not noted this film was made in Thailand and had English sub-titles. Another problem becomes evident quickly. The titles are not balanced properly making the words unseeable. Several viewers walk out, evidently complain, come back and let us know the projectionist is aware of the trouble and is working on it. After ten minutes of non-understandable dialogue, we and everybody else exits. Free tickets be damned! We wasted our gas, our time and ate the bucket of pop corn that we didn't need.

 

Harvey is in the ninth grade and studying wild animals, insects,  and thinks he may become a biologist in the future. At dinner Friday he tells us about Butterfly House that received new Monarchs. His teacher suggested to the class that those interested go see them.  David and I let it lay open as a future project. Oddly, the very next morning I see an inviting ad in the Saturday Post for Butterfly House, teachers and students free.  'Want to see them, Harv?' Dad asks. 'Sure, great.' He gives up his Sunday baseball game, invites his classmate Bernie to come along. Adult admittance had not been mentioned in the half page ad. It turned out to be $10 per, $3 for the booklet to explain what is on view. We also are confronted with baskets of very ripe fruits to hold in our hands for the Monarchs to come to feast on us. The boys each take half a soggy peach, just like the ones I throw away, and David lays out two more dollars. Counting back, our little trip to Butterfly House cost $28 and two hours of our Sunday morning. Today's cost wouldn't have been so devastating except not one single Monarch ate any of Harvey's peach, didn't even flutter around it. In fact, we never saw any Monarchs at all.

 

David is upset. He asks to speak to the Manager or Director of the Butterfly House. The Director explains that they do not have leashes on the butterflies, can't force them to eat the peaches and offers David the two dollar cost as a refund. He does not take it.

 

David and I have learned a lesson, Butterflies are not free at all. Very little is.