I’m feeling a little cranky these days, so I hope you don’t mind if I get a few things off my chest. Sure, a riled-up rant doesn’t right wrongs, but when you’re rankled, raving can be a righteous remedy for relief. Really.
You? Oh, no, it’s nothing you did. In fact, I’m addressing my rant directly to the guilty party, the proper rantee, or in this case, rantees.
Dear people from whom we purchased this doublewide:
You must be feeling pretty smug these days to have found fools desperate enough to pay such an outrageous sum for your doublewide. Not that I blame you for that—we made the choice to do so, and sometimes I think the sunrise alone is worth the price. But anyway, that’s not what I’m writing about here. I could write about the toxic waste you left in the garage or inquire as to how you managed to make so many large holes in the walls. And just how did that coffee end up on the ceiling anyway? But that’s not what I need to discuss here either.
No, Dear Sellers, what I want to say is this: For the love of Pete, people, why did you leave us not one sheet of toilet paper when you left? Not one dadgum sheet! What kind of people actually take the partially-used rolls off the toilet paper holders when they leave?!!! I’ll tell you who—cheap, cheeky chumps—that’s who. It takes a merciless soul to intentionally leave another human being toilet paperless. I’m no paragon of virtue, but every single time I’ve moved from a house, I’ve left not only toilet paper (with extra rolls!), but paper towels and soap, as well. It’s the decent, humane thing to do.
Didn’t your Mama teach you that?
Dear Cashiers from two different stores that shall remain nameless:
Perhaps you meant well when you asked me if I wanted the Senior Citizen’s discount. But to be asked that twice in one week was a little hard on my fragile, 50-year-old ego. Trust me, when I turn 55, I’ll be the first to let you know. But until then, it might be better, unless you are absolutely certain of a person’s…ahem…mature status, to wait for them to ask for the discount. Especially since you have a large sign with large print announcing it right at the register.
Or maybe you thought I couldn’t read it…because of my advanced, ripe old age.
Dear Cashier at the grocery store that rhymes with Jingles:
I was pretty excited to have that coupon for the Russell Stover’s Chocolate Rabbit. Even though my kids are in college now, I still enjoy putting together a little Easter basket for them. We’re on a budget, and the candy they usually get is more Hershey’s than Russell Stover’s, so I was particularly pleased to be able to get such a “fancy” treat. Chocolate connoisseurs may smirk, but Russell Stover’s is lavish stuff for us.
You scanned the rabbit, and I smiled and handed you the coupon. You studied it for a moment, picked the rabbit up and looked at it, then handed the coupon back with a curiously smug look on your face.
“I can’t take that,” you said.
I was baffled. “Why not?”
You announced, in a self-righteous tone, “This coupon is for the HOLLOW Russell Stover rabbit.” Then you smirked. “Your rabbit is solid.”
I looked at you, open-mouthed with disbelief. No, not disbelief that the coupon actually said that. In fact, when I looked at it again, I realized it indeed said “Hollow Rabbit.” But I was incredulous that you would take such obvious pride in denying a simple, cents-off coupon to someone because they had the solid rabbit instead of the hollow one. And the look you gave me—strangely triumphant and accusatory at the same time. I mean, you would have thought you’d caught me trying to slip the rabbit out in my purse. Oh yeah, you’re a noble one, you are, valiantly fighting those desperados like me who would actually try to sneak those hollow rabbit coupons past your eagle eyes. You must be so proud. I’m surprised you didn’t shout, “Security! Coupon outlaw!” and ask them to pat me down for more illicit coupons.
I pointed out to you that the solid rabbit was actually more expensive than the hollow one, but you were adamant, secure in your position of moral superiority. So I put away my money and handed you back the rabbit. “I guess I won’t get it then.”
So, congratulations. You won, but your store lost a sale and the good will of a new customer. And it wasn’t so much that you refused me the coupon—maybe they train you to be completely inflexible about coupons, and you were just following policy. It was the fact that you seemed so self-satisfied about it and the way you looked at me like I was committing a criminal act instead of just trying to buy a chocolate rabbit. Pardon the pun, but I would have to say that was a “hollow” victory for both you and the store you represent.
So there you have it—my picayune, paltry, perhaps petty personal peeves.
Whew. Thanks. I feel better already.