My husband, dog and I live in a very nice apartment in a large tower with a great view. Yesterday we received a message from management that there are 96 packages downstairs and if you don’t come and pick them up, we’ll be forced to enter your home and deliver them to you.

We do not have a package downstairs. I hate this kind of message that blames all for the actions of a few. Of course, to my husband’s chagrin, I had to write back and address the issue. I said they have a new and improved package room and if they only placed a door on it, it could be used. Also that we had nary a package downstairs and didn’t want the blame to extend to everyone for a few folks who actually got to have a summer vacation.

Why? What happened in my childhood that made me hate to be made to be the bad guy when I wasn’t? We were going on a trip, and our family usually left early in the morning, like 4:30. We bathed and packed the night before so all we had to do was make our beds and get dressed and go sleep in the car. I was probably six or seven at the time.

My sister was always sucking her thumb and twirling her hair until it got into knots. Sometime during the night she got up, went to the kitchen, got a pair of dull scissors, cut off a knot in her hair and left the hair and scissors on the kitchen table.

Awakened at 4:00 a.m., we were summoned to the kitchen for a tribunal where my sister and I were told someone had to confess to this wrong or we weren’t going on our vacation. My sister had a shock of hair sticking straight up, and my hair was at least ten shades darker than hers. Nothing. After eons, I “fessed up” because I wanted to get to Virginia beach and it was a 14 hour drive. No. That didn’t work. I was now in trouble for lying and my sister still wouldn’t confess.

The minute she said she did it, the hair and scissors disappeared and we hopped in the car. During the inquisition, I wondered if my parents were just stupid. The culprit was there, plain as day, sucking her thumb and twirling her hair, but for an hour or so, I was made to feel guilty enough that I took the blame and got in trouble for that as well.

Teachers always played the blame game. Assign blame to the class when they know exactly who wrote that nasty phrase on the blackboard. I don’t like that style of management, teaching or parenting so I wrote back.

Management knows all of our email addresses, and they know to whom these packages are addressed. Write the owners of the 96 packages, don’t blame all of us. It was easier to send out a blanket email blaming thousands of residents than probably 40 who’ve been remiss in picking up their mail.

Shortly after receiving their missive and responding, I received an email saying we had drycleaning downstairs. Within ten minutes I picked it up. They even have a huge flat screen with our unit numbers and whether we have a package or drycleaning, a sign everyone (including non-residents) can see. I don’t want to get into the privacy implications of that but we have to electronically sign for packages/drycleaning then our names come off the Nazi (did I say that?) Board.

All I want is a modest home in the country with a garden and a Whole Foods Market 1/2 mile away, like that’s gonna happen. I’ll have to order food on Amazon Prime and herbs/spices at Penzeys. No Nazi Boards, no accusatory emails, a simple life where we can live in peace with a couple of goats and make cheese. Ah, well, we can dream. Dee



One response to “Blame

  1. The hair cutting incident left behind, in probably everyone’s memory but mine, we did get to the beach. Sisters together again, we conspired and won two important battles against the parents. No bathing caps in the ocean (I argued that a hair or two was not going to clog that drain) and wearing matching shorts outfits for 14 hours in the car then 1/2 hour before the hotel lobby we got into dresses, lace anklets and Mary Janes in the back seat. Priorities. They’re pretty good ones from a kid’s POV.

Leave a Reply

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

You are commenting using your 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