I hate rats.
Here’s a complaint for you. I live in a river bed and when we go through five solid weeks of soggy ground and dripping trees, the rodents creep into my neighborhood. Normally the population stays out-of-doors, but once in a great while, a rat will dig the ground around my house’s foundation or flatten itself and slip beneath the garage door.
I suspected rats when I found a half-eaten tomato on my counter last Friday, and my suspicions gelled to gut-wrenching gunk this past Tuesday, with the discovery that something had chewed its way through the heavy-duty storage container in which I’ve kept dogfood on the steps to the basement for the last five years. A pile of white shards cascaded from the lid to the top stair. I got on the phone to a long list of pest control companies.
Now here’s the tie-in with my quest to live complaint-free. I don’t really think I’ve lapsed too much by grousing about the rats themselves. But the failure of the technician to appear as scheduled in the allotted three-hour window yesterday? The forty-five minutes wasted on the phone with the “customer service”, which it turns out, can do nothing but proclaim their understanding of your frustration? The dismay at my wasted billable hours (about two) and personal time (another two hours)? Those drove me to complain, complain, complain!
So I’m lamenting my relapse, publicly apologizing, and acknowledging that at nineteen months, my year without complaining trudges on. I did apologize to a lawyer for snapping at him today, and to another lawyer for doing the snapping in her presence. So maybe my adoring public will forgive me, eh?
Tally-ho! Back to the never-ending battle to proclaim myself an eternal complaint-free zone!
Right after we get rid of the rats.