Because of my loving devotion to procrastination, I never found out how to dispose of this toy.
Don't get me wrong. I don't want to ditch a perfectly good toy. This one is broken in a couple places. There are sharp edges. This little garage saw lots of hardcore playtime; but I just can't donate it.
Today I called our recycling company. The toy does not have any recycling numbers on it. The representative said toys like this are made from hard plastic which they don't recycle.
So, I called the toy manufacturer. I snort-laughed at their elaborate caller blocking scheme meant to wear me down until I give up.
I don't want to brag, but I've been told I stand in line VERY WELL. It's my superpower.
It must have cost good money to implement such a complex telephone system as it was seemingly co-created by M. C. Escher disciples and professional hockey goalies.
Press one for number of employees in line at the microwave in our break room; press two for the types of flowers planted in front of our building; press three for each of our vice presidents' favorite dog breeds.
Yet with each new choice I GREW STRONGER.
I get it. They don't want to talk to their customers. Or potential customers.
But I needed to talk to them.
And then I heard,
"Customer Service. This is Jeanine."
Her voice caught me off guard. After working the phone for so long, I had to wipe away tears of gratitude. At long-last, the home stretch. It was almost over.
I composed myself and explained the toy dilemma to my new very best friend, Jeanine.
I told her how I've had this toy for a long time. How the kids loved it. How it was broken so I couldn't donate it. How my local recycling service wouldn't accept it. How some of the sound effects still work on it, though, crazy as that may seem.
"Home phone number, please."
I didn't understand how that was relevant, but I told her anyway.
Eager to get Jeanine's sage advice on this years-old recycling issue of mine, I was on the edge of my seat. In addition, I'd dedicated a good chunk of my day to reaching an actual human.
Then she said,
"First and last name, please."
I told her my name as my frustration escalated.
I guess callers who are annoyingly persistent enough to arrive at the final stages of that phone labyrinth must then pay the company with INFORMATION.
I could only imagine what sorts of marketing I was agreeing to by complying.
As I expected, she continued,
"Home address, please."
No. No. No.
The answer to my recycling question does not depend on my phone number, my name and the location of my home.
I refused to give her my home address.
Curiously enough, she was OK with this. *shrug*
So, what WAS Jeanine's assessment of my recycling problem?
She didn't know.