Thursday, November 29, 2007


(So much pressure to continue the one-word titles.)

Last week I went to another charity event and bought something at the silent auction. For this, I was handed a bag of (questionable) parting gifts. A lingerie club membership. A book about closets. A tube of lipstick. A gift certificate for money off a Botox injection. A complimentary one-year subscription to a newspaper.

I haven't subscribed to a paper edition of the news in about ten years. My lifestyle was very different back then, and I relished mornings spent poring over the stories with a pot of tea. Then my schedule went haywire and I could only read bits here and there. By the time I got to read some of it, the news was already old, and I started feeling guilty about all the trees I was killing. I discovered the news online and it was love-at-first-sight.

(Plus it doesn't help that the paper they decided to send me is the crummiest newspaper in existence that costs money. This paper, which shall remain nameless, doesn't actually employ more than a handful of journalists, but just buys all of its stories from Reuters or AP.)

So the newspaper was delivered every morning for almost a week. I actually procrastinated on leaving my house to go to work (dangerous, given the parking situation at the office these days). I dreaded opening my door and finding it there. I'm looking at the stack of papers while I write this and I don't think I opened a single one. Also, one morning the paper even woke me up when it slammed into my front door (which, btw, is located far, far away from my bed), so my gut says my delivery person may have some kind of anger management issues.

Yesterday I wrote in and begged them to cancel the delivery. This kind of stuff always takes days, so I opened my door this morning with the same feeling of dread. Miraculously, no paper awaited me.

It's small things like this that make life so good.


1 comment:

Emory said...

You know, if I had treeware banging on my door in a morning, I would be a little put off.

I recieve two releases of treeware each morning, but the 'tossers' know to place them in the designed slot under the mail box.

I am sure the 'tosser' thinks I am an ass, since no one else has a problem with him/her/them throwing these inky dreadfuls in their yards.

E <-- Rethinks the whole morning treeware routine.