Why it's really about the little (useless) things

Lit-up signs sit on both ends of town this weekend, blinking, "TAKE CAUTION/PREPARE FOR HURRICANE!!!" or some such alarmist nonsense. Even an idiot without TV (like me!) knows there was a hurricane a'comin. So thanks for that memo.

And now that I'm pretty sure Irene has taken her bitch ass further north to Maine and Canada, I'm left looking at some scattered branches and leaves and feeling pretty sure that my office building is still standing, so there will be work tomorrow. For that reason, I figure this hurricane was pretty useless.

And while many are without power, I'm guessing there are still a lot of people scratching their heads and wondering what the hell to do with the batteries they bought yesterday, and perhaps also wondering how to get the 20 minutes back that they spent in line at the gas station filling up.

Useless.

I know I'm a cranky broad. But I find it's the little things that really make my brow wrinkle. And because misery loves company, I'd like to share this month's findings with you...

Recently, I spent an evening at Barnes & Noble, reading magazines I'm too cheap to buy. Because I'm an old maid, I read things like knitting magazines. And I came across this little nugget:

Dear Debbie, you are useless. This is a stupid question, and I truly hope Knit Simple made this up because they needed to fill space. Years ago, I joined Weight Watchers. Many of the women were just as useless as Debbie here. Our leader handed out a simple recipe that called for kidney beans. Hands shot up around the conference room table--"I don't like kidney beans; can I use black beans?" "What about navy beans?" "Do you think cannellini beans would be okay?" Ladies, are you fucking kidding? Open a can of fucking beans and toss them in. No one cares what you do with this sad, unfulfilling recipe. It's your g-d kitchen. Throw in a log of kielbasa--it'll be our little secret. Damn, these women made me want to eat more. So, Debbie, when you ask a stupid question like this you make me hate my sex. Debbie, you are hereby sentenced to scarves only--and no fancy cable bullshit--for LIFE.

Leaving for work the other day, I found this rolled up and shoved between the doorknob and the jamb. It was part of my lease (apparently they are four months behind down at the office). This apartment complex consists of approximately 15 buildings, containing six apartments each. I'm estimating that they take in $90,000 each month. So why would some poor slob use a Public Service of New Hampshire (i.e., the electric company) return envelope for lease papers? Useless! No worries, landlord. I am going to slip a nickel into a Chase return envelope, along with the lease papers, so you can buy a proper envelope for our future correspondence.

Speaking of Chase... 

I am terribly sorry, Chase, for carrying such an extreme balance. I completely understand why you would need to charge me $35 dollars if I run late on this, and push my APR out the window. Thank Christ I have a job and can probably pay this bill. PS, I'm going to play mean editor and inform you that there's no apostrophe in "APRs."

Speaking of Christ...

At least God buys his own envelopes. Unfortunately, he wasted postage on the wrong gal.

Meet my new neighbor (burgandy SUV, top center). He is useless. As is the company he keeps. So twice last week, I came home to see different friends of his parked in my assigned spot. And check out this asshat's parking skills. No, please, take two spots. We insist.

As if I needed a reason to dislike Connecticut more...

Now only I would bitch that a check made out to me is useless. But shit, it won't even cover my Chase bill this month. Where the hell am I going to come up with the balance?

On Amazon last month, I came across a book review that started with, "Do yourself a favor and read this book!" Then I saw that the author was doing a reading in Portsmouth, so I got right on it. Now the book is its own issue. I'm not quite through yet, but I'm going to tell you to do yourself a favor and maybe don't read this book. But I kinda dug the author--sort of gypsy hippie heavily inked open minded geeky smart. So I bought the book and waited in the short line for her to sign it. We chatted a little, she scribbled, handed me back the book, and I left the store. Under a lamp post, I opened the cover and saw this:

 

Thank you, V-a-n-e-s-s-a- V-e-s-e-l-k-a, for this excellent signature. This will bring in a fortune at Christie's some day because it looks so legit. 

Looking forward to September's idiocy.

xo