Conversational Twists

 Say what? I didn’t see THAT coming! 

Three times this week, conversations have taken wildly different turns, gone in directions that I could not have predicted. Laughing is good — enjoy! 

When I called a local business for answers to some pressing questions I’d asked a few days ago, the woman I spoke to said she had the information, but haven’t gotten back to me “because I had to drive two hours there and then back to pick up a mule.” 

A mule!

She then regaled me with a great story about a rescue mule she was adopting. “He’s a handsome fellow, and stands 17 hands high,” she said. “He let me ride him with no problem.” 

I’m from Missouri, so I am marginally informed about the animals, which are the offspring of a male donkey and female horse. Mules were first introduced in Missouri in the 1820s, and have served as the official state animal since 1995. 

The website tended by the Missouri Secretary of State boasts: “Missouri mules pulled pioneer wagons, plowed fields during the 19th century and played a crucial role in moving troops and supplies in World War I and II. For decades, the Show-Me-State was the nation's premier mule producer.” And that’s everything I know about mules.

I know a tad more about donkeys, because my friend Amy gave me a copy of "Running With Sherman: The Donkey With the Heart of a Hero" by Christopher McDougall. The book is funny, compelling and ultimately, heart-warming. 

Here’s the official blurb on McDougall’s story: “Burro racing, a unique type of competition in which humans and donkeys run side by side over mountains and through streams, would be exactly the challenge Sherman and Chris needed. In the course of Sherman’s training, Chris would enlist Amish running clubs, high-spirited goats, the service animal community, and two Sarah Palin–loving long-distance female truckers.”

Of course I told the proud new mule owner about Sherman’s story. Then she answered my original questions, and we wished each other well.   

The Hunt for Miniature Mandarins

I wasn’t looking for answers on Instacart, the online delivery service that brings my groceries to my door — I was searching for Kishu mandarins. These tiny little packages of Vitamins A and C are sweet, juicy and really easy to peel. 

Fruit Factoids, from AI: “Kishu mandarins may have originated in Southern China in the 8th century. They became a favorite in Japan and were introduced to California in the 1990s.” For weeks, I’ve been ordering and eating them, and though the season is coming to an end, I’m not ready to move on to a different variety just yet. 

Instacart’s site indicated the store where I bought my last two orders was all out of Kishus. I called the store to ask whether a new shipment might be expected, and the clerk’s answer was a big surprise.  

“We have Kishus right now,” she said. “I’m looking at them.” She invited me to come to the store and grab what was available, as the season is almost over. When I explained that wasn’t possible just now, the clerk suggested I order a different variety on Instacart but add a note indicating what I really wanted. That seemed iffy to me. 

“Let me talk to the manager about why the website shows Kishus as out of stock,” the clerk said. Back on the phone, she told me the manager said the store never sells these particular mandarins on the Instacart website, because the store never knows when shipments will arrive or how big they may be. 

That would be interesting if it were true, but it is not. I told her that in the past month, I’ve already gobbled up three pounds of Kishus ordered from her store through Instacart.

Next, the manager got on the phone, apologized for the confusion and kindly offered me a private delivery at a reduced rate. I said I’d call back if I wanted to set that up. Back on Instacart, I found Kishus in stock at a different store, and an hour later I had a new supply. 

Up On the Roof 

(Go on, sing a few bars as an homage to The Drifters.)

On Wednesday night, I missed the monthly meeting held by my building’s management company. A neighbor who provided some highlights later mentioned that some residents have been smoking on the roof of our 13-story apartment tower, home to about 130 adults 62 and older. 

"What an insurance nightmare that could be for management at a senior building where smoking is not permitted," I said. From now on, my neighbor told me, management has decreed that the door to the roof will be locked. A few hours later, when I repeated this news to another neighbor who had missed the meeting, she said she was sad to hear that. 

The roof, she said, was a great place to watch fireworks on July 4 and New Year’s Eve, and “now a few smokers have spoiled that for everyone.” I had not known about these fireworks-watching parties— but I do know that this particular brave friend is legally blind.

Considering the Price of Eggs   

Pondering this plethora of odd conversations brought another twisty one to mind, the story Woody Allen tells in his movie “Annie Hall” about his brother. I found it on the Internet, of course:  

“It reminds me of that old joke — you know, a guy walks into a psychiatrist's office and says, hey doc, my brother's crazy! He thinks he's a chicken. Then the doc says, why don't you turn him in? 

"Then the guy says, I would, but I need the eggs.”