- Apparently, the U.S. Postal Service is on a hiring freeze. Couple that with an aging workforce with sick and personal days to use before retirement, and you’ve got a bunch of temporary workers wandering the streets with mail. I get it.
- Are the temps required to recognize numbers? I don’t mean to be a jerk. I truly don’t. Even if you don’t know the route well, though, matching the address on the envelope with the number on the house seems like a no-brainer. Bless.
- I did feel bad for the USPS when we were having all that ice and rain. A job where you’re required to walk from house to house in inclement weather doesn’t sound fun.
- We had one of those “appointments” with the gas company last week. At first, the rep told me they’d be by between 8 a.m. and 8 p.m. Now that’s just silly. They get away with it because there’s only one company who can reconnect the gas. I asked if they could be any more specific. She narrowed it down to sometime between noon and 4 p.m. That’s doable.
- I sat in my house for that entire four hours, and I can promise you no one knocked on my door. We don’t have a doorbell button, we do have a barking dog and my teeny tiny rental car was parked in the driveway. They said I wasn’t home. I wanted to get mad, I really did. They offered to come back between four and midnight. Okay, I got a little mad.
- I didn’t cuss.
- I apologized, in advance, to the girl who took my call. After all, it wasn’t her fault. She drew the short stick.
- In the end, so we wouldn’t have to sit at home all night, they offered to call when they were “en route.” After they called, 45 minutes passed, and still no gas (wo)man.
- I called to ask what “en route” meant. I apologized to that girl, too. She politely told me it meant “on the way.” Bless.
- Question (and my tone isn’t any more than an inquisitive one — I’m curious): Why can’t the gas (wo)men give everyone a heads up when they’re “en route,” instead of crazy-long windows of time? Once you’ve gotten the call, if you aren’t in the driveway by the time they get there, you miss the appointment altogether.
- It seems as if it should go without saying, but please, please, PLEASE don’t send your children to school sick. Don’t send yourself to work sick. It may seem impossible, and you may be tired of your kid and want him out of your hair, but if he’s still sick, you might as well ask him to lick his classmates. It’d be a more direct assault, and they’re all gonna get it anyway. Twenty-four hours fever-free and no signs of the (yes I’m talking about the stomach) bug.
- We’re about to emerge from the winter of ice and stomach bugs. Sure, we might still have a cold snap or two, but the pollen count is on the rise. You may sneeze even thinking about it, but don’t forget the trade-off. We get azaleas, dogwoods and camellias. I think it’s worth it.
- If you’re getting your home ready for Golf Tournament Week, good luck. Even though we don’t rent, I’m thankful for houseguests. If you’re coming to stay with us that week, THANK YOU. You force me to clean out closets and dust baseboards, just like everyone else. My goal is to get rid of one bag of donate/recycle/trash every day until then. That’s half Lenten promise, half necessity.
- We try to give up something as a family for Lent. Instead, this year, we’re taking something on. We’ve gotten in a terrible habit of being around each other for dinner, instead of being together for dinner. At restaurants, we always have a kids’ table when we’re with friends. If our kids are eating at home, we’re nearby, but not necessarily sitting at the table. For the remainder of the 40 days, if we’re home, we’re all at the table. I already like it better. Here’s to hoping we can create a new habit and keep going.
- We’re building a screened porch. By “we” I mean “he.” I support his efforts, though. Screened-porch weather is nearly year-round in Augusta. I look forward to many a margarita on this porch. Due to bad weather and various unnamed or unknown other factors, construction has come to a halt. Maybe “he” gave up building things for Lent. KIDDING, BABE. (You’re amazing and wonderful and I shouldn’t judge, because I’d smash my finger hanging a painting on the wall.) Smooches!
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