One of the favorite pastimes of those of us who live in the good old U. S. of A. seems to be complaining. We complain because it won't rain, then complain because it won't stop raining. We complain because the coffee is too strong and than make fun of coffee that won't float a horseshoe.
A fellow I know--forget his name-- recently complained about how bad his memory was getting. He took his teeth out of his mouth to wash them, put them down somewhere and couldn't remember where he hid them. Two minutes later he was complaining because he remembered the time fifty years ago when someone sold him a bushel of rotten apples. Guess he had two problems.
We seem to complain for the fun of it, and then complain because our complaints don't do any good. Some have found the benefit of complaining by going through proper channels. For example, if you buy a tool that isn't up to standard, that breaks or bends with proper use, it pays to voice complaints to the ones who sold the tool, and perhaps to the company that made the defective item.
My brother-in-law, Bill Ham made an art out of complaining--because he could make it fun. He complained one day of trying to sleep under a satin comforter. He said, "That thing would not stay on the bed it was so slick. I held on to the edge so it wouldn't leave, but about midnight I lost my grip and the thing slid all the way down to the neighbors' house."
Bill also had answers for those who complained to him. I once showed him a sore finger, expecting to get some sympathy. In stead, he said, "Why, I've had worse places than that on my eyeball."
Often the Better Business Bureau is a good place to complain, especially if other sources do not respond appropriately. Their job is to register complaints, contact the makers or sellers, and to report to others about the reputation of businesses. That bureau gets some doozies of complaints. The president of a Denver BBB office said that a woman complained about a fishy deal at a local car dealership. She said, "When she walked into the ladies's room, a big slimy fish fell on her head." The bureau found out that a kindhearted employee had bought the fish to feed a stray cat that had just given birth to a litter of kittens. Since the bathroom was the coolest area in the building, he stuck the fish above the door to keep it fresh.
Mail order ads create big business for BBB's. One New Yorker read an ad promising that he would become a millionaire for only $49. He sent off his check and received this information: "Take out a million-dollar life-insurance policy, borrow from friends and relatives, use up your credit line and then tell everyone you're dead!" Think that bit of advice is worth the money?
Many complained about some fiberglass coffins one company tried to sell grieving customers. The coffins were shaped like peanut shells with a top and bottom. The "peanut" would fit inside a beautiful regular coffin for the funeral, then afterwards the shell could be buried and the coffin saved. No fuss and not much money.
After a complaint, the president of a BBB in Louisville, Ky, called around and found that cemeteries would not allow burial in such a container without a concrete vault. There was a chance that after a hard rain, the body, in shell, could pop through the surface of the ground--as in "Night of the Living Dead."
My mother frowned upon complaining. She promised us that if we complained or cried too much, she would give us something to complain about. We did get by with a little pouting, but had to be careful she didn't see those turned down lips and sorrowful eyes too often. If we just had to pout, it was safer to go to the outhouse and pout in private. Pouting didn't solve many problems around our house.
In some cases, complaining can get you into hot water. Like the group of camping boys Ray told about. Each had to prepare meals for two days. If anyone complained, they had to finish out the cooks assignment and then his own turn. One enterprising boy thought he would generate a few complaints by putting too much salt in the beans. The first man who tasted the super-salted beans almost made the mistake, "These beans sure are salty...Just the way I like them," he hastened to add.
So, maybe your toast was a little burned this morning. Or maybe you do have your shoes on the wrong feet and can't stand the pain. Knowing to whom your complaint should be addressed can be real wisdom. Spouse may not be the one.
By the way. If you want to complain about my writing, jot your complaints on the back of a postage stamp and send to me for your refund.
