Picky

I'm glad to have an outlet for all the silliness that school work forces me to hold back. I'd love to hear what people think of this so don't be shy, comment. I promise something serious soon.

My sister-in-law Susan, never knew how to leave well enough alone. Two years ago, I bought her the Longevity Chest Set off the Smithsonian Museum's website. I thought it was a wonderful gift that matched her living room's décor beautifully and she agreed, until, after carefully looking it over she found a scratch on the bottom of one of the boxes. She insisted I return it for a replacement.

Seven new chest sets later [with a shipping charge of $8.00 for each one] she still manages to find something imperfect about it. Exhausted and frustrated over mounting shipping charges, I finally took the set for myself, gave her two-hundred dollars and told her she could pick one up for herself next time she's in Washington.

My sister is the single most fussy person on the planet.

After owning a particular blouse for almost a year, some of the stitching came lose. She attempted to return it to the department store under the assumption that if it had been made properly, the blouse would have survived her by three generations, without any sign of wear.

''I'm sorry miss, our return policy specifically states that you have ten days to make all returns.'' Said the young, unsuspecting clerk at the costumer service counter.

''I'm sorry, sir, but your return policy, as per the back of this receipt, is a fat-winded, bureaucratic load of cow menses. I've read it through and it clearly states I've up to thirty days to make a return under certain circumstances. Besides, your shoddy merchandise is to blame here. Why should I bare the burden of your tangible, sweat-shop produced stupidity?''

I was supposed to be there to provide ''witness testimony'' but I did my best to disassociate myself from the whole mess by spending the duration red with embarrassment, pretending to browse a near by rack of children's underpants.

''Again, I'm very sorry miss, but that's a Marshalls' receipt. Target purchased this location more than three months ago, I'm afraid...''

''You're worthless,'' my sister interrupted. ''Get your manager out here this instant!''

One supervisor, two store managers, a district manager, Five separate Executive Vice Presidents , two Senior Vice Presidents, and finally, once C.E.O later, my sister got her return; that is, she was allowed an exchange of equal or lesser value.

''It's the principle of the thing,'' she explained, In a voice horse from three and a half hours of yelling.

When my sister-in-law's first child, Susan Lanawin Watson Jr., was born, I knew my sister would invariable found her to be imperfect. By the time Susan Jr. turned two, my worst nightmare came true.

''I'm looking into returning my kid,'' she said to me one morning, in her most earnest tone.

I choked on my coffee before managing to squeak out, ''Why?''

''She drools, her head is slightly bulbous, some of her toes are webbed, her eye color doesn't match the dining room set, and she never wants to talk to me.''

''She's barely two, does she even know more than five words? Give her a chance at least,'' I protested.

''No, I'm sorry but I'm really set on this, I think I could do a lot better.''

She picked up the phone and dialed ''411.''

''Hello, yes, I'm looking for the number for Heaven.''

''I don't know, somewhere outside the Milky Way I'd imagine.''

''Yes, that Heaven; I'm not into strip clubs.''

''Excuse me?''

''Oh, yes, Christian.''

''I guess I can see why that would matter.''

''You'll put me thorough?''

''OK, thank you.''

''You have a good day as well.''

I had underestimated the power of ''411.''

I'm not typically the nosy type, but this was a conversation I just had to listen in on. I ran into the next room and gingerly picked up the phone, so as not to be heard.

''Yo, you've reached the number for Heaven, this is J.C. speaking, how art thou?,'' Jesus started. I could hear Led Zeppelin being turned down in the background.

''Hi, I'm doing well. Yourself?'' My sister replied, minding her manners for the time being.

''You know, just kickin' it 'till the rapture, I can't complain. So, what was it I could do for you, errrr, Susan, right?''

''Yes, Susan, Susan Watson, to be exact. I'm calling to make a return.'' Her voice turned from sweet to stern between sentences.

''A return? Oh, I see, that's tricky, it's really best that you just wait till you pass naturally.''

''Oh, no, It's not for me. I was hoping to return my daughter, she really isn't up to my expectations so I just don't want her anymore. I think it would be best for everyone if you took her back,'' my sister said, maintaining her best, calm, business-like, tone.

''Your daughter?'' Jesus sounded puzzled, or caught of guard at least. ''Yo, Pete, let me see that book right quick.''

I could hear the rustling of pages and a few mutterings between Jesus and Peter.

''OK, sorry about that,'' Jesus continued, ''You're referring to Susan Jr.?''

''That is correct,'' my sister-in-law confirmed.

''Well, my records indicate that she's a healthy young girl without any pernicious abnormalities or otherwise terminal afflictions.''

Jesus had taken on his own business tone.

''You see, Susan,'' Jesus went on, ''Dad's not big on returns. That's not to say they don't go through from time to time, it's just that, this is way outside any allowable circumstances.''

I couldn't see from where I was but I could hear Susan rapping her fingers on the counter, one at a time, in a rapid succession.

''I don't think you get it,'' Susan rebuked in an incensed voice, ''This kid is barely ten-percent of what she could be. A proper child would be perfectly proportioned and reading Dickens by now. How can you expect me to tolerate this kind of sub-par craft work. Haven't I lead a good, deserving life?''

I was amazed by my sister's reserved language. Then again, Jesus is no department store clerk.

''Listen miss, don't buy into all that dribble that's taught in Sunday School. Dad isn't in every womb, molding every person to his whim,'' Jesus allayed. ''Even for the omnipresent that would be way too tedious. Instead, he developed something called genetics. It's not exactly perfect but in the long run it works to everyone's benefit. Think of it as a lottery. I'm sorry you didn't hit the jackpot, but I'd say you got one hell of a consolation prize.''

''That's bullshit,'' my sister-in-law objected, ''Let me speak with your manager.''

''Fine, I'll put him on but he's probably gonna tell you the same thing,'' said Jesus. ''Just hold for one moment.''

Cool jazz began playing through the receiver.

I couldn't believe it, my in-law was, most likely, about to chew out The Almighty. I felt a little sick being related to her, even if it wasn't by blood.

I hoped God, who would surely know I was listening in, could forgive my imprudence.

''Mrs. Susan Dempsey Watson,'' a soothing voice boomed.

The voice, which sounded remarkably like Jeff Bridges, didn't come solely from the receiver but seemed to echo within my own mind. I'd imagine the sensation was the same for my sister.

''This is she,'' Susan replied confidently.

''I have reviewed your daughter's file and determined that she is not eligible to be returned.''

''But...'' My sister-in-law tried to interject.

God spoke again, ''I have been anticipating this phone call since before you were born. I have had ample time to make my considerations and I will not be swayed at the final moment.''

''You must reconsider,'' My sister argued in vain. ''Surely, I'm worthy of something more?''

''No,'' God bellowed, in a voice that made me wince.

''Well that's just great,'' my sister steamed. ''Your no different from the rest of them, trying to pawn off a haphazard construction of damaged materials on others while you keep the premium stuff for your self!''

''I bet Jesus didn't have a big head, I bet he talked to you all the time even before he turned two, I'd bet he didn't have webbed feet or a strawberry birthmark, or Jaundice, or...''

''Look,'' God said, breaking my sister's rant, ''I see what you are getting at but I still can not do a return. What if I arranged an exchange, for something of equal or lesser value instead?''

''Fine,'' my sister agreed.

''It is done,'' God said. ''I hope you are happy.''

The line went dead.

His final remark was a foreboding period at the end of a calculated sentence. The suspense of what would happen next was so palpable I could have swam through it.

That night Susan Jr. was never delivered home from the babysitters, any record of her existence mysteriously vanished and as suddenly as the phone had went dead, no one had any recollection of Susan having a daughter save for Susan and I.

The next day a horse, which would later be confirmed as the world's tallest horse on record, wandered into the yard and refused to leave. My sister-in-law broke into tears.

She swore to everyone that she had a perfectly beautiful daughter once, but she was taken away and reincarnated as the horse, which my sister stabled and named Susan Jr..

Susan Dempsey Watson was committed by the end of the month. God could sure be cruel, but it was the principle of the thing, I figured, taking a lesson from my sister.