the airing of the grievances

I realize that the Festivus celebration doesn't officially begin until tomorrow, but since I'm thinking of it now, I'll perform my Airing of the Grievances early. 

The other day I went to a holiday tea party for the girls in Jade's class and their moms.  (Before I get outraged fan letters pointing out how sexist this arrangement was, please note that at this age Jade and most of her friends do not want to share their free time with boys who make fart sounds, and the boys don't want to attend tea parties at antique stores unless they can break stuff.  This will change soon enough, at least with respect to the girls' perspective; in time, they will find a way to justify the fart sounds of their particular crushes as "so totally cute!" or otherwise offset by more obvious charms. And if Jade is truly my daughter--and I suspect that she is--she will be batting her eyelashes at the boys sooner than her parents wish. So shaddap about gender-exclusive gatherings already.)

Ahem.

As we sat waiting for our food, the owner of a local kids' boutique walked by, and we exchanged hellos.  That's when I remembered that I have been meaning to speak to her about a book I bought at her store.  But since the substance of my planned communication is, essentially, a complaint, I didn't want to throw a wet blanket on the party by bringing it up as she was walking past.  So I made a mental Note to Self: "Don't forget to write letter regarding the inappropriate book."

***

It's an ongoing joke in our household that whenever I am dissatisfied with the way things are in the world, especially with businesses with which I deal, I proclaim that I will write a letter to the proprietor informing her/him of my grievance.  My goal is not to extract compensation (except for when United Airlines lost my luggage on a Sunday afternoon and I had to appear in court first thing Monday morning--then, I think, it was reasonable to demand reimbursement for the brand new (really cute) suit, shoes, (not nude) pantyhose, and (expensive and silky) undergarments I had to buy because no judge in Texas was going to listen to a lawyer from Washington, D-freakin'-C complain about how things should be done in God's Country, especially if she appeared in sweats.)  No, usually my thinking goes, "If I write them a letter, they will be shamed into correcting the problem. Plus, it'll make me feel better."

My letters-never-written campaign began several years ago, when I complained at the dinner table about the (&*$#^**& dog owners who let their dogs poop on the trail where I run and then leave it there for people to step on or to flow into the ocean.  Quite conveniently, bags are provided to aid the dog owner who forgot hers, yet those who are irresponsible a-holes just don't use them.  Then there are the owners who are responsible or quasi-responsible, but a-holes nonetheless: these people "use" the bags under a most narrow definition, to wit, they simply place poop into them.  But then they leave these steaming poo-filled bags on the trail instead of disposing of them, wrongly thinking that they have done all that is required of them.  They suppose some magical Poop Elf will come along to pick it up and haul it away, perhaps the same Poop Elf who provides bags in the first place.   

But I digress again.

After ranting about dog poop for awhile, I decided that I would write an open letter to our local newspaper pleading with irresponsible a-holes to change their ways.  For the children. This single letter would be read by the masses, and many would recognize themselves and, with a tinge of guilt, vow to be a more responsible dog owner and member of society.  It was a perfect plan, and I was going to implement it just as soon as I found the time.

That was four years ago.

Since then, we've discovered that our "seedless" Clementines contained seeds and the French's newly designed "Easy Squeeze" mustard bottle did not make for easier squeezing, especially with respect to the second half of the condiment.  Regarding these cases of fraudulation Jade used to say, "Hey Mom, you should write them a letter!"
And she is right you know, but I currently have bigger fish to fry.

Well, smaller fish actually--fish who swim in the pond that is our local economy.  I air these grievances not to harm them, but to help them. One of these days I'm going to sit right down and write them a letter and sign it.  Until then, herewith is my list of Grievances with Local Business Establishments (2005).

1) Last summer we picked up this book in a local kids' store for Jade. She had just finished surf camp and we thought it would make a fun little congratulatory gift.  After we got it home, however, I was shocked, shocked to find that it contains lots of sexual innuendo and at least one explicit reference to having sex on the beach with cute surfer boyz.

Don't get me wrong: I like Surf Diva Surf School, both because they have made great strides in getting more females out in the water and because the founding Tihanyi sisters had the keen eye(s) to spot a potentially huge market and run with it. I just don't think their book is appropriate for the 0-to-10-year-old set, the target market of the store where I purchased the book.  So my grievance is not with the books' authors, but with the store owner who probably has not read it but assumed it would be cute for little girls because it has pink on the cover. See, you can't judge a book...blah blah blah.  On the other hand, if she has read the book but sees nothing wrong with selling it, well then "shame, shame!"

2) We frequent a local place called Duke's Bitchin' Burgers because 1) Bell likes the surf videos; 2) I like the Guinnes on tap; 3) Jade likes seeing her friends there; and 4) Kai likes to eat.  But I am really pissed at them because, so far as I know, they still have not done anything to remedy the peeping tom (not my husband) situation in the women's bathroom.

The sole stall has an eye-level window in it, on the other side of which is the restaurant's stock room.  Since windows are made of see-thru glass (so you can see through them, because they're windows) the restaurant painted a nice beach scene on the window, presumably so that the stock boys could not look into the stall from the other side. However, about a year ago someone scraped off a 4" circle of paint in the lower left corner of the scene, creating what appears to be easy visual access for perverts.  I've known about this and always cover it when I or Jade use the bathroom and I warn everyone I know about it, even customers entering as I leave.   

Over the summer I issued such a warning to a woman I assumed was a customer.  It turned out she was the girlfriend of the owner or manager or something.  She listened thoughtfully, appearing surprised at the act of vandalism, and promised that she would "take care of it."  However, as recently as a few weeks ago, the window still had the peeping hole.  I think it's time for a letter, this one to the newspaper.

3) About a month ago I went out with the girls for drinks at a bar/restaurant called Gordon James.  At the time I thought crab cakes sounded like a good idea (in retrospect I realize it had been the martini talking). I split the crab cakes with my friend R.  All was well until the next morning when I awoke to go to the gym.  I felt a little warm, then dizzy, but brushed my teeth and dressed regardless.  Suddenly I broke out in a drenching sweat unprecedented since those summer days when I went to karate right after an hour-and-a-half run.  Only it didn't feel good at all, especially since it was followed by a most heinous bout of--how do I put this poetically?--the runs.  The sweat poured off me and I soaked through two bath towels in as many minutes.  So went much of my morning, followed by a comatose sleep and chills. 

My friend R. got off much easier.  She called to ask if my stomach had "felt funny at all?"  Then she said, come to think of it, her boss had gotten sick on Gordon James' crab cakes the previous month.  And when I told someone else of my plight they said, "hey, I got sick on their crab cakes, too!" So apparently there's a burgeoning little society of people poisoned by these crab cakes.  I suggest we band together and write a letter or something.

4) I realize there are power/submission issues involved when strangers touch my feet, but if licensed professionals don't do it, no one will.  Every now and again I get so grossed out at the calluses on my feet that I go in for a pedicure. Because I don't think to do this on any regular basis, the pedicurist who gets stuck with me really has her work cut out for her.  And I think this is only right--one would become an indolent pedicurist indeed if she never had to use any elbow grease.  Working on my feet is a character-building experience.

One day a sweet young pedicurist was building her character and I noted that she was really giving it her all.  She took a little longer than usual, but she was thorough and neat.  Afterward, as I walked to my car I felt two sharp pains on my heel. It felt as if I'd been impaled by thumbtacks.  I looked at the bottom of my foot and found two small red puncture wounds on my heel. I have no idea when these wounds were made, but it must have been when I got the pedicure.  I went home and poured hydrogen peroxide on my foot, then alcohol, and I topped it off with Neosporin.  The puncture site was tender and red for four days, and I imagined that my foot would have to be removed once the gangrene set in.  I heeled--er, healed--but promised that I would be writing that establishment a letter.  Which I will do when I get the chance.

***

Phew.  That feels so much better. 

Now I must go prepare for the Feats of Strength.