Thursday, Jan. 22, 2004
Dear Diary:

When I opened the oven and surveyed the spousal unit's pizza, I once again mourned the fact that burnt offerings are no longer in vogue. I mean, if they were, I could have told him his supper was a religious experience, right? RIGHT?

My thoughts, exactly.

The poor man. This has so not been his day.

One of my three loyal readers, Carrie sent me an inspirational wind-up blue turtle--so I will have someone in my life actually slower than I am--and some new workout tunes. YAYYYYY. The only problem was that the good folks at Purolator mistook my neighbour's home for my house, my neighbour wasn't home, and they left a "I couldn't deliver this" notice stuck to her front door yesterday.

Our neighbour left the notice stuck to her door, left us a voicemail to come and get it, and when the notice wasn't there the next morning, assumed we'd picked up the all important paper. The paper with the vital code we needed to claim the parcel. Only we hadn't because we didn't get the voice mail until late at night.

Oh yes, the vital piece of paper had blown off our neighbour's door. Oh happy day.

So the spousal unit and I spent an hour combing the woods around our neighbour's house, with no luck. Walking through mid-thigh snow. Fun. We began to walk down the main road, our hearts sinking. By some wonderful stroke of luck, though, someone had run over the notice and it got stuck in the road. If they hadn't, Lord only knows where it would have blown.

Home again, home again, dancing a jig. Well, as much of a jig as two middle-aged people who have slogged through thigh high snow can dance. Then we spent 15 minutes on the phone bickering with Purolator telling them no, we wouldn't drive to the town over an hour from our home where their office is and they had to bring the parcel back to us.

To make things easier for them, we gave them my mom-in-law's address. Her house is close to the road (and you have to walk 1/4 mile uphill to get to ours this time of year). My mom-in-law generously stayed home all day today to accept the delivery.

Only they didn't deliver it to her. Oh no, that would be too easy. They Delivered It To My Neighbour's House Yet AGAIN Late This Afternoon.

Thank God she was home this time.

So you'd think that would be the end of it, but you would be so wrong. Because, you see, the Purolator guy managed to mire his van in the five foot high snow bank as he was backing out of the bottom of our neighbour's drive. Oh yes, yes he did.

The spousal unit had to leave his workshop where he was in the middle of building kitchen cabinets (cabinets the client is starting to mutter about because it's taken him longer than he thought it would to build them). Down to the home farm he went, and after many prayers and incantations he got the half frozen tractor fired up so he could pull Mr. Numbnuts Purolator guy out of the snow bank. It took almost an hour.

I sweartogawd, if I didn't know better I'd say there was a curse on that parcel. And then, after all the kerfuffle with the delivery van, I ended the poor spousal unit's day with a half-charred supper. Poor, poor man.

A day like this makes you realize why they make you promise "for better or for worse" when you get married. Anything less binding, and I know for a fact that we'd have both headed for the hills years ago.

--Marn

P.S. -- Today is Pimp Out Twelve Per Cent Beer Day! Why not go visit folks who can actually write coherently, eh?

Mileage on the Marnometer: 57.81 piddling miles Ten percent there rubber duck.
Goal for 2004: 1,000 miles - 1609 kilometers

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Want to delve into my sordid past?
She's mellllllllllllllting - Wednesday, Feb. 15, 2012 - Back off, Buble - Monday, Dec. 19, 2011 - Dispersed - Monday, Nov. 28, 2011 - Nothing comes for free - Monday, Nov. 21, 2011 - None of her business - Friday, Nov. 04, 2011 -


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This template is a riff on a design by the truly talented Quinn. Because I'm a html 'tard, I got alot of pity coding to modify it from Ms. Kittay, a woman who can make html roll over, beg, and bring her her slippers. The logo goodness comes from the God of Graphics, the Fuhrer of Fonts, the one, the only El Presidente. I smooch you all. The background image is part of a painting called Higher Calling by Carter Goodrich which graced the cover of the Aug. 3, 1998 issue of The New Yorker Magazine.

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2000, 2001, 2002 Marn. This is me, dagnabbit. You be you.