The Mailbox

Those of you that have read me for any length of time must surely remember me talking about the “Motive Mailbox.”  If I ever kill my husband, this damn mailbox will be the motive.  If not, here’s the short version of the story.

I bought a brand new, beautiful, sturdy mailbox in 2003 and the installation thereof went onto Gruff’s To Do list.  The mailbox has resided on the floor of the living room, next to the television, taunting me ever since.  No longer.

My mailbox has been properly installed (in March 2015) and is the most gorgeous mailbox the post office has ever approved or seen.  I am absolutely giddy about it and have already been outside to clean it with Windex and soft cloths.

So take heart, those of you waiting on Honey-Do list items to be accomplished.  It can happen. Even after a dozen years, it can happen.  Well, it happened because we had a house fire and contractors were here anyway fixing stuff and they tackled the mailbox, but let’s not quibble.  My mailbox is up and I love, love, love it.  Now I have no motive.  Life is good.

 

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Recalled

Remember when I said I’d be posting new stories as soon as I healed from my recent surgery?  Yeah, me too.  I healed like a boss and am all better from the surgery, but. . . .

Walking back from my mail box (no more than 25 yards from the front door) one of the muscles behind my right knee ripped.  Spontaneously ripped.  Boom!

It is fair to surmise that I am no longer a person whose warranty has merely expired, I am now on the urgent recall list.  I am the human equivalent of a Chevy Aveo.  I am in a wheelchair, hopefully for no more than three weeks.

So, I ask your continued patience.  When I return, I promise it will be with all the wit, wisdom, and snark you’ve come to expect from me.  The new post will be so compelling, it will be the literary equal to a neon sign flashing “LIVE NUDE GIRLS!”  I’ve always wondered why the word “LIVE” was necessary.  Be back soon.  Two drink minimum.