Nebulous Mooch

After searching for the lost package on Thursday afternoon, we got a call on Friday morning at seven thirty. Most people know not to call us that early, so the call startled us. It was the FedEx delivery man that had mixed up the addresses. He told my husband that he had delivered the package to the apartment complex next to ours, accidentally. He said he would try to retrieve it later that day. Excited to know where the package was, my husband jumped out of bed, threw on some clothes and went to get his package.

He was gone longer than I expected him to be gone. I drifted in and out of sleep, thinking he would come back at anytime. Finally, he walked through the bedroom door with a box in his hand. He was beaming.

He said it took so long because when he found the right apartment, he looked around outside first, to see if there was a package lying around. Then he knocked on the door. He said that he made sure that he was holding his wallet in his hand. He thought that holding his wallet and fidgeting would make him look less menacing. I don’t know what gave him that idea. He waited, but there was no answer. He knocked again. Still there was no answer, but he could hear noises inside and could smell toast. He knocked six times and waited patiently after each knock. Finally, an older woman answered the door. According to my husband, she had a strange accent. As soon as he mentioned a package, she knew what he was talking about and gave it to him. He asked her where she was from, and she said she was Polish. She probably just wanted him to go away, so she could eat her toast.

He got his harmonica. It was exactly what he always wanted all of his life. He spent the day showing everyone, he talked about how easily he could take his new harmonica apart to clean it. He gave me a little test. He played all three of his harmonicas to me while my back was turned, to have me pick the one I liked best. Of course, I picked the wrong one. I think he was disappointed.

Now there is harmonica happiness in our home. As soon as his new harmonica book arrives there will be double the harmonica happiness.

There’s something wonderful about getting a package delivered. There is great joy in waiting—the thrill of anticipation. Tracking it online brings happiness to my heart. When I wake up on delivery day, I don’t want to go out because of fear of missing it. My heartbeat quickens at the sound of a U.P.S. or FedEx truck outside—the roar of the engine, the squeal of the brakes. I want to throw the door open before the delivery person even knocks and say, “Yes, that package is for me. I’ll sign where ever you want.” I like to feel the weight of the package in my hand. I use a knife to slice through the tape. I dig though the Styrofoam packing. It’s exactly what I ordered, and all is well.

This scenario doesn’t always play out so perfectly. My husband ordered a harmonica online a few weeks ago. The first problem is that he ordered it a few weeks ago and it’s taken this long to be delivered. It wasn’t in stock at the time that he ordered it. He checked his bank account online everyday to see if the company had taken the money out of his account yet. When they finally did, he knew his harmonica was on the way.
He patiently tracked its course and waited. Everyday he told me about it. He told me about how wonderfully the harmonica would play. He told me about his friend who played this brand of harmonica and thought it was great. He told me about how all of the troubles that he had with his old harmonica would not be an issue with this new one.

Delivery day came. He didn’t want to go out because he wanted to be here when it arrived. On the way back from taking out the trash, we saw a FedEx truck pull into our apartment complex. He took off running to our apartment so he would be there before the truck. Alas, the truck didn’t stop at our place.

Later, that afternoon still no package arrived. He decided to track it online. Surprisingly, the package was shown as delivered at 2:38 that afternoon. Dismayed, he called FedEx. The woman he talked to said that the driver said he left it under the doormat. I checked. There was no harmonica under our doormat. “But I waited all day,” he said, “and it never came.”

After he got off of the phone, he told me that they delivered it to the wrong address. The woman he spoke to said that they would investigate the situation. If they don’t deliver the harmonica to him in 48 hours, he will have to file a claim.

We decided to do some investigating of our own. We drove up and down our street. The address that they claimed to have delivered it to doesn’t even exist. The numbers skip and where the address should be there is only a patch of trees. Where is the harmonica? Was it left outside of a hallow tree? The squirrel that lives in the tree comes home to find a package at his door. “What is this?” he wonders aloud. Because squirrels can’t read he doesn’t realize that the package isn’t for him. He excitedly gnaws the package open. He digs through the packing material. “A harmonica,” he says to himself, “Just what I’ve always wanted.” The squirrel grips the harmonica in his paws and tries to determine if his large front teeth will affect his technique.

I like driving. I like the solitary time to think and listen to the radio. I like the time to ponder life and my place in it, as I yell at my fellow drivers because they obviously don’t know what they’re doing. Driving is a good wholesome activity. There is just one thing that ruins it–left turns.

I’d like driving even more if I didn’t have to make left turns. Right is all right but left is not so all right. I go to extremes not to make left turns on busy streets that have multiply lanes. I’ll drive a few blocks out of my way to turn at a traffic light. The green turn arrow is my best friend. This arrow saves me from having to make potentially life threatening decisions.

I have the traffic lights that I use frequently timed. I know that if I’m stopped at a red light at one light, I have to drive at least forty miles per hour to get to the next light in time to trigger the left turn arrow. I hate it when the people in the cars in front of me don’t seem to realize this and drive at a snail’s pace. I especially hate it when the slow car in front of me is turning left too. What’s their problem? Doesn’t everyone time traffic lights?

I don’t know why this is, but some people don’t seem to realize that you have to trigger most left turn arrows. If you don’t pull up to the line, the arrow will not come on for you to turn. Sometimes I pull up behind a car and they are sitting two or three feet from the white line. They always act confused and dismayed when the arrow doesn’t turn green for them. Of course, it’s not going to turn green. You haven’t triggered it. You just wasted all of the effort I put into coming to this light to make a left turn.

For me pulling out into traffic is like jumping double Dutch. Whenever I tried to jump double Dutch, the rope hit me in the eye. It’s hard for me to properly determine when to pull out. When other cars are waiting in line behind me, it really puts the pressure on. I think of the person in the car behind me yelling, “Just go already!” I feel all flustered and under-confident. It’s shocking that I haven’t been in more accidents.

I was in an accident once. Surprisingly, I wasn’t turning left. I was turning right. I had let my guard down because of the relative ease of a right turn. Before I knew it, my car was kissing the bumper of a green four door sedan. Don’t worry. No one was hurt and it will never happen again.

Driving is a great pass time, as long as there are no accidents and no left turns. I love it. I could drive forever in a straight line. That would be ideal. Besides, my irrational fear of parking makes it hard to stop driving once I start.

I have some pictures of my husband as a child that I want to post. Every time I try to post them, it say there is a error. This is the only one that will post. He was thirteen in this picture.

Kirk, I thought you might want to use this on the website.

My stepson has a new eating regiment. He must eat vegetables at every meal, and he must eat what we are eating. He’s done well with these new rules. After a month of trying new foods he’s discovered that he likes salmon. The complaining is less intense than it was at the beginning of the month. Now only half of his comments during meals are complaints. Increasing his vegetable intake has done wonders for his complexion. His previous diet of cheese, more cheese, and creamy Caesar dressing was causing pimples to erupt from his twelve-year-old forehead. The pimples are subsiding.

Tonight we had chicken curry for dinner. He had a choice. He could eat with his father or with me. His father had to leave for work about twenty minutes before I got home. He chose to eat later, with me. I was surprised by this decision, but soon discovered the reason. While we ate our salads we talked. He told me about a few stories he saw on the evening news. After the salads he told me about how much he didn’t like curry. Then he asked me if he could have a pita pizza for dinner instead. I told him that there were no pitas, and he pulled a new bag of them from the refrigerator. Of course, I told him no. Curry was what we were eating for dinner. He could eat that or nothing.

He thinks I’m the pushover. I’m the one who will let him have what he wants. I’m about to let you in on a big secret. You are going to be privy to some important information that only a few know. Are you ready? I made the new meal rules. I did it. He doesn’t know. If he reads this, he will know, but he usually doesn’t read my blog. One night when my husband came home from a gig, I had found some articles about dealing with children who are picky eaters online. I asked him to read them. Then I told him my plan. We discussed some ideas and made some new mealtime rules. I let my husband explain and enforce the new rules. I’m the food tyrant and my husband is my henchman. I can try to pacify the subject with the occasional meal of cheese ravioli, but one day he’ll figure it out. If he thinks about it long enough, he’ll figure it out.

Here’s another secret. The new homeschooling schedule was me too. I researched the curriculum. His father enforces that schedule and we both check the work. I love it because it’s like good cop, bad cop.