Ever have one of those life episodes that is so akin to a movie you swear there is camera hidden somewhere? As I make those house an actual home, I have had two runs ins that could be deleted scenes from these two movies:
Money Pit. The lovely tale about a fixer-upper- around every corner, another project. It started with the washer and dryer purchase, followed by the pressure washer rental to clean off the muck, to the flooring installer who had to McGuyver an uneven section in the living room, to the baseboard. Ah yes. The baseboard that the painter INSISTED we would need because the new flooring would lower than the previous carpet. So, off to Lowe's I went. You know you are spending a lot of money in the store when as you walk by each department, the agent there waves and says, "Hi! Mrs. A!" $250 later, we own 120 lineal feet of baseboard, at a whopping $2 per foot! Two days after it is delivered, the painter returns, and declares there is no need for it; the old baseboard fits!
Funny Farm. The mailman in that movie cracks me up. Raucously drunk the majority of the movie, his final, sober mail delivery to Chevy Chase was classic. Upon purchasing our new digs, I called the local Postmaster about the availability of a mailbox in our division. We live in one of those places where off of the main highway there is a stretch of boxes for all of us hidden here in the woods. The poster master had our mail delivery person call me from her personal cell phone (gotta love small town America). She informed me two boxes are available. I pick which one I like, afix our numbers to it, and collect mail for the next few days.
A couple of days later, while walking Tok in the rain, I stopped by our box to pick up that day's mail. In our box was a nasty note telling me to get my own box. This one, apparantly, was taken. I grabbed my stuff, careful to not disturb the note, and made a turn to return to our walk. Due to my hood blocking off nature's watering can, I did not notice the man who had walked up on me. Cursing myself for not being vigilant, our exchange started off haltingly. He started with no introductions. He immediately questioned my use of their box. I explained that it was a simple misunderstanding; the post master gave me permission; but he must have been mistaken. At which point he begins to go on and on about his wife being upset, calling the postmaster, considering calling the state troopers, and the message his wife left on my phone. At which point I remind him that I am new here and am not yet listed. "Well, she left a humdinger of a message for someone." Internally I laugh and feel sorry for the guy who has to sleep next to this woman. He opens his mouth to drone on again, and interrupt, "Hi. My name is Christina. I am new in town." He pauses, looks down at my extended hand, and hesitates. In the end he shakes it. He starts in again about how his wife was so upset and how he looked out his window, saw me, did not remember seeing me before, and decided to follow me to see if I were the one who "stole" their $60 mailbox. At which point, as I reached into my pocket to grab my cell to call the police and report a stalking charge, his son walks up behind him. Opting to not verbally bash the man and his "humdinger" of a wife, I beg my leave and again, tell him that it was a misunderstanding and that I will followup with the postal service about it.
After formal confirmation from the post master, our new box is the one right next to their's. Oh joy.
