Suspicions confirmed….

Well, today my suspicions were confirmed.

I made a phone call to the town newspaper…..to cancel the subscription I just purchased last week.  A purchase that was made because I was impressed by the ad person’s compassion and caring.  I felt that I should support the paper because of that.

I ended up speaking with the editor of the paper.   The very same one who writes the famed “police report.”  I hadn’t wanted to speak with him….I had chickened out really.  (Ha!  So much for my bold statement about giving him a piece of my mind.)

Welllllllll………….turns out he got a piece of it anyway.

He answered the phone you see.  So I bumbled around a bit…asked who I might speak with about cancelling my subscription.  He told me who and that she wouldn’t be in until Monday.  Then silence.  His whole manner (rudeness and belligerence from the very first syllable he uttered) was rubbing me the wrong way…..and I could not help myself…..and I opened my mouth.

I asked him, ever so sweetly…(sort of sweetly…), if he was interested to know why I wanted to cancel my subscription.  ??  He said, brusquely, “I know what this is about.”

I said,”Really?”

“Yeah.  You’re that lady who’s been looking for her dog.”

That pissed me off.  Royally.

So I played the card I play when I want something.

“This is Dr. Burnett.  And yes, I am half of the couple that has been searching for our missing dog Max.”

Because, you see..this is what his little police report blurb had to say about Greg and I:

“Dec 5   A couple was in town searching for their dog that ran off while they were recreating on Independence Mountain.  Reportedly, a dog psychic told them the dog was in Walden.”

5 errors!

1.  It wasn’t Dec 5, it was December 4th.

2.  Max didn’t “run off…” he got picked up and was not allowed to return home.

3.  We weren’t “recreating” on Independence Mountain…we live on Independence Mountain.

4.  Dog psychic??????????? Nope.  Not really.  And if you called Sue that, she’d blow a gasket, just like I have.

5.  NOONE has EVER told us Max is IN Walden.  Period.

Five inaccurate statements in two sentences.

Someone pointed out that my correcting him may have been why he was belligerent, rude, obnoxious and downright mean.

Except that he was all of those things when he answered the phone.  Really.  Because my hackles went up immediately…as soon as he answered.  Which tells me that I was sensing badness.

And boy howdy did I get it.  Badness that is.

I am exhausted.  I’m not going to go into the details of what was said.  And I’m not sure this is good for me anyway.  It’s beginning to sound like some bad junior high school drama.  He said, she said malarkey.

Suffice it to say that my friends who have told me, repeatedly, that this town sounds like something from the movie Deliverance, have all piped up again with that same line.

I’ll just leave it at that.

 

 

 

 

 

About madranchwife

Mother, Mad Ranchwife(as in--at times-- crazy, nutso, loco, off-my-rocker insane), Veterinarian, Physical Therapist, "Liberal, pinko, gay-loving, Subaru-driving Socialist" (as I've been called), proud to be a totally tree-huggin', climate change believin', granola girl environmentalist, ObamaGirl, Pro-Choice (don't even get me started here...), and in my younger days a feminist vegetarian as a result of time spent at CU Boulder (this lasted approximately 14 months, until all the Jimmy Buffett I was listening to caused me to crave a cheeseburger). Now I just get pleasure out of swimming against the stream and ruffling a few feathers here in the wild west state of Wyoming!
This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s