Cuckoo Clock
By: Debbie Farmer

It's been said that there are three major classifications of inanimate objects: 
things that break down, things that get lost, and things that no one ever expects 
to work.  I'd like to add a fourth category: things that drive you crazy.

Let me explain.  My mom is a big fan of cuckoo clocks.  Now, for those of you lucky 
few who aren't familiar with them, they are an exceptionally expensive and annoying 
kind of clock, usually birdhouse-shaped with a mechanical bird that pops out of a 
tiny door and enthusiastically announces "coo coo" at about 85 bazillion decibels 
every hour, causing you to either jump out of your chair, drop your drink, or have 
a heart attack. 

And although it may sound strange, they are very popular and just the sort of thing 
collectors love. And, hey,  I'm sure they are, but frankly, along with porcelain 
dolls and elephant salt shakers, I just don't see the big draw. (Uh, not that there's 
anything wrong with either of these things.)    

As far as gifts go, my mom isn't an easy person to shop for so when she asked for a 
cuckoo clock it all seemed simple enough.   

 That's when I discovered two important things about cuckoo clocks: 1) quality ones 
 are about the same price as a new sports car and 2) most of the cuckoo clock shops 
 on this planet are in Germany. 

However, I didn't let this bit of knowledge stop me.  Instead I did what any savvy 
and sophisticated shopper would do: searched the Internet for a cheap knock off. 

And, lo and behold, I found one.   ON SALE.    The only drawback was that when it 
arrived, a week later, instead of getting a smallish, quaint clock, I got a hidious 
looking one about the size of a phone booth.   Okay, yes, so maybe I'm exaggerating 
a bit. But still. 

And before you start thinking "Why didn't you check the size, dummy?"   Let me just 
say, it didn't look like that online.   Oh sure, it said something about feet and 
inches and all that, but who really pays attention to all that stuff anyway? 

So I shipped it back and exchanged it for the smaller size, which arrived triumphantly 
on Christmas morning.  And I'd like to say I delivered her gift and everyone was happy 
and that was the end of it.  But it wasn't.    Little did I know that this only marked 
the beginning of a long line of cuckoo clocks whizzing back and forth through the 
United Parcel Service that were, according my mother, either "too loud",  "too soft", 
"slightly chipped", "unevenly stained" or "didn't sound enough real enough".   Now, the 
first few problems I can understand, but tell me, how real is a plastic bird coming out 
of a wooden clock supposed to sound anyway? 

The final straw came last week when the UPS delivered to me.... wait for it... the 
original giant cuckoo clock.    Which, I might add, I now hate with the passion of a 
thousand burning suns. 

Now it seemed to me I had three choices, none of them particularly appealing except 
for the third one which, while emotionally gratifying, was rather violent and financially 
impractical.   So I chose number two, which was to bring it to my mom's apartment when she 
wasn't home, hang it up, and run away.  Then contemplate going to live in another country.  
Preferably one without cuckoo clocks. 

And, yes, I admit, this isn't a particularly brilliant or mature plan, but, hey, it was 
the best I could come up with.

But, deep down, I never thought it would really work. So imagine my surprise when my mom 
called and said, "Thanks for the new clock.  It's gorgeous! Say, why didn't you get that 
kind in the first place?" 

Now, there are a lot of things I could've said. But, being a good daughter and a decent 
sort of person, all that came out was, "you're welcome."  

Sometimes it's best that way.