9:24 a.m. - December 23, 2002
This one resembles the rush for a crack pipe that's fallen to the floor, or a bunch of drunks on a Tilt-a-Whirl trying to walk crookedly so as to walk straight, but still not making it
Bundled with today's newspaper was an envelope marked Service Gratuity, in other words a plea for a handout, or in lesser-evil terms, a monetary reward for a job well done, sumptuous recognition, a greenback in the hand as opposed to a slap on the back, an open wallet instead of an up-thumb. I'm put off by (a) begging, which presupposes one's natural generosity--how does the carrier know I wasn't planning to tip? [note: Initially said top. Hmmmm. Something's going on in that brain of mine] and (b) a failure to acknowledge what has already been received, since I tip monthly via automated debit withdrawls. So damn it, I'm entitled to a Thank You card instead of a plea. Ingrate.
So out of curiosity I decided to see how much etiquette mavens suggest for tipping and I fell on my ass laughing. Found this site and whoa! if anything, I'm a penny-pinching grinch (no really, be surprised) because there's no way my paper man is going to get a $15-$25 tip for doing his job, especially when the paper is at the far end of the drive, which makes me wonder if repetitive motion injury (RMI) has filtered down to delivery-people, a workplace phenomenon called Paperboy Elbow or something. Oops. Paperman, Paperwoman, or better yet, The Paperist. Sheesh. Gender-neutrality is an exercise in intellectual foppishness. Sheesh squared: I'm on a roll this morning.
Perhaps that is because I've cleaned house and inhaled chemicals galore; not that there is much needed to be cleaned since I don't live in filth, but I vacuumed, dusted, washed the inside of the windows, cleaned the bathrooms, mopped the kitchen floor (not with the old-fashioned mop and bucket, because if that was my option the filth would accumulate and you would think the floor is brown tile instead of white; not that you'd wonder this, because you've never been in my home; but you know what I mean) with some swifter gadget my sister brought by.
Why housecleaning at 5 a.m.? I dunno why either, but now my house smells good, the wood gleams, the windows sparkle on this beautiful blue-sky day. Did find a spot on my bedroom carpet, one of those tell-tale What is that? hmmm spots, a darker shade than the beige. It's an obvious you know... (whisper) discharge spot. Not sure how to remove that; will try in a few minutes. If unsuccessful, I'll move the bed over, which may prove worse because when I move or sell this house, newcomers may find the dropping and think, Wasn't the bed here? and wrinkle their brows and try to imagine sexual goings-on that would occur under a bed.
Back to the tipping. Tip the mailman? Er, mailcarrier? No mail comes to my house so this is a Not Going to Happen line item, though I did think to give a box of chocolates to the staff who man and woman the facility where my mail arrives; I try to be nice to them because after all, they see my mail and I know if I worked in a postal establishment I'd be nosy too, and there's many things that they could raise their eyes at. Did I mention that one of my former students handles my mail now? He began a few weeks ago and that discovery made me feel a bit... weird, like I hope I don't receive any bulk-mail porn that breaks through the packaging. But I won't worry about this because I like walking into the station and someone's fetched my mail already, ready to hand over. Service. I like service [top, service; it's a leitmotif this morning. Any takers?].
In other words, this entry is too long and I've forgotten what it was I was writing about. Tips. Yeah, right!
I'm on vacation, can you tell?
Well not really; I work this afternoon and obviously Christmas Eve, and then back to work on the 27th. But still, I have a few days off which means I'll be working on the book unhampered by time constraints.
Did I mention I've been called for jury duty? Since I was 18 and a political science major, I've waited to be called and have never been all these years. Not once. Imagine my glee when I received the summons. I have jury duty! I have jury duty! But a funny thing happened after the exuberance subsided: I immediately began thinking of ways to get out of it. Bad, bad, bad me. Unfortunately, I don't think I can and I'm not going to fight it; I'm hoping it's a juicy case so I can railroad the other jurors. Ah, yes.
The holidays are sweet, aren't they?
