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Posts Tagged ‘Rage’

Dear FedEx and Bright Cellars:

Thank you for working together to offer me new challenges to overcome. I feel so empowered now that I’ve successfully passed numerous levels of gameplay and defeated the final boss in an epic showdown.

Level One: The Cancellation

To pass this level, I finally had to cancel my Bright Cellars subscription FOR REAL THIS TIME. I live one mile from a Total Wine & More. I resisted your offers of free bottles and credits. I accepted ONE LAST SHIPMENT to use my various credits.

Level Two: Shipment Attempt 1

This one was tricky. My package was returned to Bright Cellars because the FedEx driver said no one was home Sunday. I was home. No one even rang the doorbell. I realize now that the cheat code to win this level was that I needed to sit on the stairs outside my front door all day. Still, somehow I forged on to the next level.

Level Three: Shipment Attempt 2

This was a tough level because I had three villains to defeat.

  1. Bright Cellars had to change the address to the leasing office.
  2. FedEx had to make sure to put “leasing office” on the shipping info.
  3. The (nasty) manager of the leasing office had to be notified that a package was on the way.

Level Four: Shipment Attempt 3

Another difficult level. FedEx, you were wily, and required numerous maneuvers.

  1. I had to call and convince you to hold the package at the FedEx facility in Norcross so I could pick it up. You told me to call the facility after 5.
  2. I called the facility after 5. I was put on hold three times. Finally, an unpleasant woman said she could not hold the package for pickup unless FedEx customer service (yes, her same company) told her to hold it. That I needed to call customer service, and have them call her.
  3. I called FedEx customer service again. I made Geordie write a note in the shipment file, and call the facility witch.

CUT SCENE:
Late evening phone call from the FedEx facility in Norcross to explain that the reason my package wasn’t delivered was because the leasing office hag wouldn’t sign for it.

Level Five: The Pickup

“If no one answer keep trying until they do.”

This level required me to call all the extensions. Twice.

Level Six: The Final Showdown

The final boss was a lovely man who — at first glance — just seemed like a beleaguered employee. But this level required an ID and signature on a digital pad that would not accept signatures. Still, I persevered.

I will now treat myself to what’s in the box.

It had better be THE BEST WINE I’ve ever tasted to be worth this difficult adulting game.

In sum: I never want to play this game again.

I hate you both,
Beth

 

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Dear People of the World:

I think a little etiquette lesson is in order.

If you are in a public place, you cannot behave like you are in your living room.

For example, if you are eating at a restaurant, even one as casual as The Varsity, you CANNOT talk on the phone as loud as humanly possible.

Don’t be this guy, who shared with the entire place his distaste for some cashier’s long fingernails.

Why do I know this? Because I was 20 feet away and could hear him clearly. He made me want to wolf down my fries and flee. And YOU KNOW Varsity fries are to be savored.

I’m so annoyed.

Similarly, you should not watch a video on full volume in a public place, ESPECIALLY not a fine-dining restaurant. Yet that is exactly what my cruise friends and I witnessed in the ship’s steakhouse. All 11 of us turned to face this rude man with looks of shock on our faces.

To no one’s surprise, he didn’t notice. He was too engrossed in some YouTube video — for at least FIVE MINUTES (which is a long time when you are peeved).

If you need more lessons on what’s acceptable (and not) in today’s society, check out this Forbes piece.

Your fellow humans will appreciate your attention to this matter.

Thanks,
Beth, a considerate and quiet person — in public

 

 

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Dear Readers:

You know how excited I get when I have a guest post. Today, I’m pleased to present one from Disgruntled Danny, a lovely-despite-the-moniker person I met while pursuing my passion for a particular U.K. band.

He’s pissed about the lack of road repairs in Chell Heath, the borough he’s called home for 12 years.

Here he is, in rare form. Enjoy!
Beth

 

“Harry Pothole and the Tarmac of Terror” and other tales
Guest post by Daniel Harrowven

Misery, frustration and disappointment. For most British people these are our default settings, but on a Friday morning in early May these emotions were amplified.

The reason? I had just read the results of the local government elections and, as feared, my local councillor had been re-elected.

For the last nine years, since my councillor was first voted into office, Chell has gone from being “a little bit rough” to a town that can now offer visitors an experience akin to Kabul circa 2003.

How did this happen?

Chell Heath is a Safe Seat. Many of the families in the area have lived here for generations and they always vote for the same political party. They are afraid of change. As long as nothing improves, they can continue to blame all their problems on former Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher. (She was forced out of office in 1990 and has done nothing at all since 2013 on account of her being dead.)

I was inspired to act whilst driving home one evening. Listening to the latest CD by Jesse’s Divide, I suddenly felt my spine shatter, thumbs dislocate and the CD skip, causing me to wonder whether I had suffered a brief blackout.

No.

I had driven over one of Chell Heath’s impressive (and growing) number of potholes.

Danny recreates his death-defying drive.

In mainland Europe and the U.S.A., drivers drive on the right of the road.

In the U.K., drivers drive on the left of the road.

In Chell Heath, we drive on what is left of the road.

The following day, I went back to the pothole and had my long-suffering wife photograph me pretending to punch the pothole.

Disgruntled Danny, Superhero

I posted the photo to my Facebook wall and the Facebook page of my local council.

And became an Internet troll.

Lately, my trolling has taken the form of movie treatments and posters fitting the pothole agenda.

 

Here’s a medley:

 

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How much of a stir has this trolling caused within the council? Have I been asked to remove the posts? Been offered a meeting to discuss my grievances?

No.

I have had no response whatsoever.

Not even a “Sod off and bother someone else.”

But one person did take notice. Rathi Pragasam, the woman who ran against my councillor — the woman for whom I voted — found my pothole series amusing. So it came to pass (that sounds a bit biblical!) that Rathi visited me recently to discuss my rantings.

To be clear, she is not elected, has no power or authority in the ward, but within 24 hours she had contacted parliament (WTF!), arranged funding, and now the potholes are due to be repaired in the coming weeks.

All more than anyone on the council did.

I understand that there will always be bigger problems than some holes in the road, but little victories make life slightly more bearable.

And writing this has been a joy, because for 40 minutes I, a British person, have not had to talk about Brexit.

 

 

 

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Dear God:

I just want to thank you for all the times that speaking your name and that of your son has helped me not to murder MY son.

You know which one. Dominic. It’s always Dominic.

This child tests me every damn day.

  • He has barely turned in any school work this whole year but won’t take responsibility.
  • He asks questions but won’t listen to the answers. (Then gets mad because he doesn’t know what is going on.)
  • He refuses to do what he is told but wants rewards.

Dominic is supposed to be putting together the shelves he is using as a pillow. (Meanwhile, his brother put together an entire bed by himself.) Then this slacker had the nerve to ask to be paid. He wanted $30!

He is about to go out of town with his father, brother, aunt and uncle. I secured the tickets a month ago based on his aunt’s instructions. He didn’t pay any attention, of course. So when I reminded him this week, he lost his mind.

My reaction?

This line really gets me:

He genuinely thinks this is my fault, not his. Does not understand cause and effect, actions and consequences.

What’s worse is that his teacher is the wife of one of my colleagues. So his poor performance — in language arts no less — is a smidge embarrassing for me.

He wasn’t done. But I was.

You know what else I don’t like? His Gen Z abbreviations. No wonder he is sucking so hard in language arts.

Perhaps it is Dominic who should be calling on you for assistance.

Your Obedient Servant,
Beth

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Dear Dominic,

Yes, I’m writing to you again. Yes, it’s because you are driving me crazy. Again.

Want me to stop writing about you? Stop being a buffoon.

You had your new retainer for exactly a week. Then you threw it away with trash on your lunch tray.

No big deal, right? Call the orthodontist and ask for a replacement.

Oh, it IS a big deal. Here’s a timeline of why:

Friday, April 19: Braces off. There is much rejoicing.

Friday, April 26: The incident. (What were you thinking? Expensive retainer? Who needs that old thing?)

Monday, April 29: I call the orthodontist in Savannah — four hours away — where you completed your braces plan. “Oh, we don’t keep those molds. We need him to come in to get a new impression.” Not happening.

So I call the orthodontist on our health plan in Atlanta at the location that is closest to us. There is no answer. All day.

Tuesday, April 30: Resume calling. Finally get a voice mailbox. Leave message.

Wednesday, May 1: Call again. Get human who says the orthodontist is only in that location on Tuesdays and every other Thursday. What the flock? Human says we can take our chances during walk-in hours early Thursday morning in a different part of Atlanta.

Side note: Shall I remind you that Atlanta traffic is so bad that a five-mile journey might require us to tune up our car and pack a lunch?

Thursday, May 2: Wake up before dawn to make it to the walk-in appointment first. Beg the people to get you in and out quickly so you can make it to school. Your grades are not good enough for a day away from instruction. They make an impression — of your lower teeth. Why didn’t you tell them you needed the top instead? I had to tell them. Come on, Dominic!

They tell me to come back in the afternoon to pick up the finished product. So I battle rush-hour traffic to get there. Yet, they will not give me the retainer. They need to try it out on you.

For the love of God.

Couldn’t someone have told us this during the morning visit? I wasted 1.5 hours driving. Yay for the My Favorite Murder podcast. (Stay sexy, and chain your kid’s retainer to his body.)

Friday, May 3: Wake up before dawn to meet “Zane” at the orthodontist location closest to us. How dare you be cranky because I rushed you to get out the door on time! Don’t make me use what I learned via MFM.

Here you are with your new $200 retainer on your $3,000 smile. The sign indicates my feeling about all this business.

Don’t ever doubt my love for you. The fact that you are still breathing after all this should be proof enough.

If you lose this retainer, I’m going to make you earn the money to replace it by cleaning my car with your toothbrush.

I’m serious.

Try me.

Love and kisses,
Your out-of-patience mother

 

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Dear Dominic:

There’s nothing that brings people closer than a road trip. I’m glad we had this weekend together, though it did not start off well. You seem to have three moods: angry, goofy and asleep.

The first was fully on display on the way down to Savannah so you could finally (FINALLY) get your braces off. If I hadn’t grabbed your phone, rolled down the window, and threatened to throw it out, I’m sure you would have stayed in attitude mode the whole damn weekend.

I think you are angry so much because you need more sleep. Your prefrontal cortex isn’t developed yet, so you haven’t figured out why a regular bedtime is a good thing. Let me show you some pictures that illustrate just how freakin’ tired you are.

 

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And because you are tired, you have no energy and move slower than a snail.

Here I am, waiting 30 minutes for you to be ready to leave Tammy’s house for the orthodontist.

Maybe it was the excitement of getting your braces off, but suddenly your funny side emerged. I tried to take a “before” picture of you. You didn’t like this one, saying you looked challenged. (Not your word. Yours was a non-PC one that I’ve asked you repeatedly not to use.)


You didn’t like this one either, saying you looked like you had witnessed a murder but were trying to pretend like you hadn’t.

But these two photos passed muster. You look great with your new smile.

Maybe that’s why you tolerated my happy hour with Bingo/Goat Yoga Lisa so well.

At any rate, it was a turning point that lasted the rest of the weekend. I came home early from Ladies Night Out because I had fallen and hit my head. You actually showed concern:

And you even wanted to take a nice photo with me yesterday.


So what do I have to do to get you to be like this all the time?

What’s the secret?

For the love of God, please tell me. I’ll be straight: Angry Dominic might find himself shipped off to boarding school.

Don’t try me.

Love you!
Mama

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Dear Pat,

As much as I admire your gumption to keep working long past retirement age, I think it’s time for you to consider calling it quits.

Monday was rough, but I thought our tax-prep nightmare was over.

I was wrong.

Yesterday, you sent this:

Eddie drew the short straw and went to get the new forms to mail.

As it turns out, your words were misleading: We still owe lots, but we now owe less thanks to your fix. Great! Thanks!

But why would you tell him that we should now call the IRS to find out exactly how much we owe? Come on, Pat. Isn’t that your job?

So I’m going to subtract the “refund” from the old amount and send a check for the result.

Pat, this experience has, quite frankly, sucked.

And we had to pay for the sucktitude. At least it wasn’t more:

No charge for your mistake? How generous.

You could have at least tried to make it up to us with another free pen.

Pat, I’m afraid it’s time for you to hang up your spurs. Go enjoy fruity drinks by a pool somewhere. Aren’t there great grandkids somewhere who need you?

Please, think of the children. And my sanity.

All my best,
Beth

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