And I’m not talking about the temperature. It’s still cold. I’ll suck it up.
I *tried* to get down to the lake early enough to capture the sun as it was still closer to the horizon, something I had seen after taking Travelling Companion up to the Company that Cannot be Named. The sunrise was quite nice. I missed it.
No matter how expeditiously I hustled, the sun was already fairly high in the sky. I normally have motivational issues (read: I’m lazy) when it comes to getting myself down there at the crack of dawn for what could possibly be a spectacular sunrise, this will have to do.
One of these days I just might make the effort. Or not.
Don’t hold your breath.
No, what I’m referring to is the ongoing inability of the mail carrier type folks to actually read the numbers on a piece of mail and drop it off at the correct location.
At some point in mid 2013 (it was warm weather is all I remember) I managed to catch the mailman just after he had dropped off the wrong mail. He was opening the green mail-drop-off box thingy out at the corner here, and I handed him his offering, at which point he intimated that this was some sort of rare occurrence. I don’t remember his exact words.
Really? That wasn’t going to fly.
MY exact words I do remember.
“Oh no, this has been going on for twenty years. And poor old ‘Mr. X’ (he’ll remain anonymous for the sake of this little diatribe) is getting too old to delivery my mail to me. And I’m getting tired of dropping off his.”
Mail person Dude didn’t have much to say, except “oh”.
What can you say, “Er um, I guess I’m dyslexic?”
Either that or they sort the mail in the dark. I’m not sure. Actually, it’s just off by one number. We’re 5383. It needs to go to 5483, *sigh*
After that little confrontation, we’ve had a pretty good run of a couple years of correct mail delivery. It seems the run is over.
The “Woman’s Day” was today’s first clue. And I haven’t received anything from The Publishers Clearing House in like….forever. Thankfully.
Nor do I particularly want to start getting anything from them. Because then it never stops. Kind of like the calls from The Clothesline, who call us up way too often looking for used clothing. They must think we go out every single month and replace our entire wardrobe. I don’t get it. On the one hand, I don’t mind helping out, but could you give me maybe six months or so? Maybe then I could come up with something. Honestly.
So I guess I’ll be taking a drive by “Mr. X’s” house when I go out to pick up T.C.
And they wonder why folks are using less and less snail mail.
I also wonder what mail he has of ours.
Guess we’ll find out.
Thanks for lookin’.
And yes, there really IS a big NFL Picks Wheel in the basement. I lied yesterday.