It's not about the house.

Monday, December 10, 2007

Destructo Strikes Again

My camera broke.

I really don't think I did it, but I don't know what happened. I put the garland on the tree, took pictures of it, and when I plugged the camera into the computer to show them to you-all, the transfer program didn't work and the pictures disappeared.

They aren't irreplaceable pictures. I can take them again. I only paid $20 for the camera (in case anyone's been wondering why my pictures are such ass) and I figure I got my money's worth out of it, so if they still have them at the Walmarts then I'll pick up a new one on my way home this afternoon.

Ugh. Walmarts two weeks before Christmas. Maybe I should just go ahead and buy a gun.

That was a joke, internets!

Do you know what really sucks about this, though? There is a leaf on my bedroom skylight this morning that looks exactly like the Patriots logo -- or, how the logo would look if it were brown. It was the first thing I saw when I woke up this morning, and I leapt for the camera with the intention to post it, with the logo underneath it, and tell you all that this is proof positive my boys are on a Mission From God. But when I went to download the picture, poof. And by the time I get home with the new one, I'm sure the leaf will be gone, too.

Which should in no way be taken to mean they aren't on a Mission. They are. If a week spent up to his ears in the Word gets Laurence Maroney to power through a defensive line like Corey Dillon used to do, then somebody big is pulling for them somewhere.

Anyway.

So since I don't have a camera to show you the progress on my tree (and don't worry, this tree is a four-day process: you're not missing anything), I thought I'd bitch today instead about my newspaper guy.

I only get the Sunday paper, and that only during football season. I used to get it every day, but then the Globe sold out to the NYT and stopped hiring freelancers, and now it generally just really blows. Except for sports. You really can't beat the Boston Globe for sports writing, no matter how all-encompassing those guys in Bristol get.

But it just so happens that football season coincides with Christmas season, and at Christmastime it's customary to tip your paper guy. I don't have a problem with this. The only reason I get it delivered during football season is I don't want to have to go out in the cold and get it for myself. I can certainly flip the fellow what amounts to a buck a week for his trouble.

But I want it to be my decision.

Every year at this time, Newspaper Guy slips an envelope into the baggy with the Sunday paper. Actually, he slips an envelope in there once a month or so, but the rest of them I just ignore because I pay my bill automatically by Visa. This one's different: this one has a Christmas Card in it. Nice, right? Except it isn't signed, it's got a stamp on it, and it's addressed to him.

This pisses me off.

If he could be bothered to get out of his car instead of hurling the ten-pound paper at the front door from the street, he might notice that I left him a card with his name on it on the front step. I woke up early and snuck out there just to do it. Actually, I only went that far the first year. He didn't pick it up, and I was so offended by his self-addressed, stamped request for gratuity that I took it back and kept it for myself.

The second year, I used my own card and stamp and mailed him his Christmas tip. I thought I was making a subtle point, although I picture him getting an unfamiliar card in the mail and scratching his head, wondering who the hell it came from.

So last year I used his damn-o card, and I put his damn-o tip in there, but all I wrote inside it was my own damn-o name. And address. I signed my damn-o name with my address so he would maybe try a little harder not to break my windows. But I couldn't bring myself to wish him Merry Christmas.

Yesterday, the SASE came again. This morning, I sit at my desk with the card in front of me, getting angrier and angrier the more I look at it. I am sorely tempted to tear the whole thing into bits.

Let it go, Prudence. It's Christmas...

I know, Goody. I know.

7 comments:

Tara said...

Oh boy does the SASE from the paper person tick me off! I tip all year long because paper people change on a regular basis and I don't want to cheat the delivery person at the beginning of the year, in favor of saving the tips for Christmas. I want to get a pair of those disgusting dangly rubber balls that redneck men hang from the backs of their trucks, paint them a brass color, and gift THEM to the paper person this year. If it were a Christmas card with a return address, that's one thing...but the SASE (TWO mind you last year!) is just crossing the line. (Am I evil for peeling off the stamps and using them for bills?)

theotherbear said...

You could always send the card to him, with no tip, and a note on what he did to piss you off? With no identifying info of course, because I am sure you like your windows.

Tipping is not big here. So you may want to take my advice with a grain of salt.

Although a few years ago I gave my garbo men a 6 pack and they loved it. Although I think I may have been drunk and on my way home from a big Christmas party at the time.

theotherbear said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
Ladyscot said...

My guy leaves me a signed Christmas card, with his return address label on the outside (like he was going to mail it), as a hint to send a tip. No SASEs.

su said...

I say, put a cookie bundle into the tube for the newspaper person! I tip the mail person but the newspaper person p's me off!

cuz donna said...

My paper people did not send me a card of good cheer with a SASE this year and guess what I did last Sunday? Left them a card with a Christmas check in it... Go ahead, say it. "Biatch"

Muskego Jeff said...

Come on, live a little. Spend more than $20 for a digital camera. Explore the finer things in life that come from having more than 1.2 mega pixels!

Take the paper-boy's envelope and put a napkin in it with "Merry Christmas, better luck next year" written on it, and send him that.