Choosing Battles

I was in quite a mood yesterday evening, but thanks to my visit to the nursing home with my Ladies Auxiliary members, it snapped me out of it, just like the visit usually does.  For an hour and a half last night, I didn't think and stew over something that really irritated me yesterday. Let me preface by saying the parties mentioned in this sordid tale do not read TWIT; but the way I feel about this ordeal, I could not care less if they do, so they'll know how I really feel. 

First, a little background on what put me in the mood.  Basically, I was helping out someone who was ungreatful.  I helped out one of my SF's (School Friends, in case you forgot the abbreviation) by packing and mailing a package from her to her WT daugther et al in Florida.  The other recipients of said package were here WT daughter's live-in boyfriend, his son, and her three kids (each with a different father).  I was helping out my SF because she was working crazy hours this week and because I try to be helpful to my friends. So I went out during my lunch on Monday to pick up a gigantic slow cooker and other items from the SF's office, and when I got back to work I lugged them back to the shipping department out in the factory where they helped pack everything up for me. In doing so, I didn't pay attention to the fact that a receipt for a few of the gifts was in a plastic shopping bag where a few gift cards were. 

The WT daughter had called her mother (the SF) before the package had even been mailed, asking for the tracking number.  I guess you can tell she sure wanted the package, huh?   I got the package shipped from work, and it arrived in just two days, with everything in tact.  I called the SF last night after I had tracked the shipment and told her that it had been received that afternoon.  She said "Yes, I know.  J called me earlier and said that you packed a receipt in the box."  It hit me instantly like a knife in the gut.  I said "OK, sorry about that" and hung up.  I didn't get one "Thanks for taking your time, effort and gasoline to get the packages for my daughter and her kids and mailing this for me." Nor did the WT daughter say "Tell Puddin thanks for much for helping you out and mailing the package." 

As I said, I stewed on it the rest of the day and all night long, and the only time it didn't bother me was when I was at the nursing home.  On the drive back home from the nursing home, I remembered something my best friend Diva Stacy told me about chosing my battles.  After stewing some more, I thought "I'm choosing this as a battle to fight."  When I got back home, I couldn't stand it any more, and called the SF back, and told her how I felt.  Of course, she apologized and said "Oh, don't take it personally - J didn't mean anything buy it."  But I couldn't let it go.  I simply told her that next year, I would not offer to help her out by mailing her Christmas, nor any other holiday, packages to her ungreatful daughter.  And yes, I did use the word ungreatful.  She probably won't speak to me again, but I really don't care.  I'm tired of trying to help people out and getting screwed over.  It's time that Puddin put on her big girl pants and kept them on.