Sunday, September 13, 2009

Speaking of newspapers

Our family has been getting the NYT for about 6 or 7 months now. I got a great weekly rate through school, and I like the idea of taking a look at the headlines, at least, and getting nice and angry right at the beginning of my day.

So in addition to needing a kick ass newspaper rack [see previous post - and I can't believe it but both the girl and the husband find the Alessi Blow Up ugly. So fuck them. As soon as I get the money or am carefree enough to dump $115 on a charge card, I'm getting that rack.], I've been dealing with the actual delivery of the newspaper. By our schizophrenic newspaper boy.

I head out in the wee hours [6:20 or so] to get the paper. In my nightgown and slippers. With full Albert Einstein hair. And sometimes the paper is right at the door. Smack in the middle of my welcome mat. Other times, it's at the end of the driveway. Way at the end, like down by the street. I get so angry at the inconsistency. It's like a fucking tease, but not the good kind.

Wow. That was boring.

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