16 August 2006
171
R. Linda:
Someone (at first, I thought it was the Jehovah's Witnesses) kept batting down me mailbox. Therefore, yours truly had to slog his way to the Post Office, and I told you about the postmistress down there. Yikers, she's as bad as Lois one meadow over and a hundred brain cells lighter, and like Lois she makes me repeat things like she can't understand me. I be a foreigner from some country that "Don't speak the language." And Lois does it just to hear my accent. Nice huh?
Last week, someone ran over me mailbox. I went to Lowes and bought me a new one. It took me a good afternoon to get the hole dug, dig out rocks, pour the cement in a bucket, plant the mailbox post, and let it set overnight. The following day, I went out there, and the post was gone, broken off. The cement bucket was sturdy, but the post had decided to leave and become a fence post someplace.
So after a lot of me cursing (which I do a lot of late), I dug out the cement bucket. I got back to Lowes and got another bucket, another post, another bag of cement and some dirt because I had to re-dig the bucket out, and I'd need dirt to fill it back in. I came back to find the hole filled in! Yours truly is hopping mad now. It is bad enough I have spent countless weekends repairing my leaky roof, and now I be out doing the mailbox twice because someone thinks it is a funny time for Gabriel.
SIGH
I dig the damn hole AGAIN, throw out the set cement bucket with a bit of post still attached, mix the cement again, place the new bucket in the hole, put the new post in the bucket in the hole, and gently pour the new cement into the bucket with the post, in the hole, and Colonel Mustard is in the Library with Miss Scarlet . . . but I be off on a tangent. I left the outdoor lights on and waited on the porch in the dark, waiting. For what? I have no clue. About 2 a.m. I go off to bed reluctantly because the wife is having a hissy I be sitting outside with the mosquitoes as company.
The next day, bright and early before Tonya is even up, I get me boots on and in me jammies I go slogging out to the end of the driveway to find . . . to FIND THE DAMN POST IS BROKEN AGAIN!
I was fighting mad. I started cursing, and before I knew it, there be me wife running down the drive in her pink terry robe and fuzzy slippers (yes, the same that Weasil donned for the Jehovah's people) (see The Jehovah's Witness Visit or, Come Have A Bath - 24 July 2006), yelling at me to shut up I'll wake the world. I tried to communicate with her what happened by pointing (it was the best I could do since I was foaming at the mouth). Like a dumb arse I was gesturing all over the place and it took me a good few minutes to realise Tonya was standing still, smiling shyly with embarrassment I turn round and there was an old couple sitting in their car watching me with dire concern. They thought we were having a domestic argy in the middle of a backcountry dirt lane. I took hold of me wife's arm and turned her toward the house as I waved the old couple on. I was sure they thought I was taking her inside to beat her up and the police would arrive soon.
It was Sunday, and I did not feel in a Sunday kind of mood. No indeedy. I was furious at who? I didn't know who, and that was my problem. Tonya went to Home Depot this time and got the same things again, except the post. This time, it was huge (nothing was taking that baby out), and she went with me for moral support while I refashioned the hole, mixed the cement and put the new post in. She had bought a solar light for down there, and we set it up and left.
The next day was Monday. I had to go to work; I had nearly forgotten about my mailbox post until I drove to the end of my drive and saw it was nicely in the cement. I'd fill it in when I got home and put the mailbox in if I had time, and off I went, happy as a clam. I got in late and did not have time to do any of that. It was like that all week long. I vowed on Saturday that I'd get it all done and pick up all our mail that day because it wasn't being delivered.
One of Tonya's friends came by on Friday night to drop off some cookie tins she had borrowed. She had a few drinks someplace before she came, and I offered to drive her home, but she refused. I should have been more adamant because as she left, she ran over the solar light and killed it. Yes, R. Linda, it lay dead in the road.
Saturday morning, I get the new mailbox, me screwdriver, and down to the end of me drive I go to find the post is again broken off! I threw everything down, and the screwdriver bounced back off the road missing me head as I danced around cursing. I know you are probably sitting there with a sneer, but I certainly wasn't dancing around with one. I was near to tears, R. Linda. I crumbled onto my knees, raised my mailbox over my head, and yelled, "Why me, Lord, why me?" It was then the Jehovah's Witnesses drove slowly past, shaking their heads in an "I told you so" way, and once they passed, I sobbed uncontrollably. Well, I did the first, not the second, but it does sound rather dramatic.
I don't have to tell you how I spent my Saturday. Same crap the next day. The post (what was left of it) has been left to rot for the past four weeks because I refuse to play this game. I racked me brains trying to think who would do this to me. Weasil comes to mind every time. But he swears he hasn't, and to be frank, he doesn't live anywhere near me, and to come up every night to shear off me mailbox post would be excessive even for him.
However, this weekend, I got all the fixings once more. I did the deed. Then Tonya and I spent Saturday night camped out in our bushes. You had to see this, there we were, sleeping bags, canteens, crisp bags, and a small tent with mosquito netting. About 4 a.m. I was awakened by a chewing sound. I look up towards the mailbox post. What do I see? A fecking beaver chewing away on me willow post. That did it! I get meself up and stamped me feet wildly like I be coming for him and he looks at me and continues on till he has the damn post down and is running off with it.
"I paid twenty-seven dollars for that, you rodent; come back here!" And off I started, but then I fell flat on me face as me wife's hand shot out and her fingers gripped me ankle to stop me from strangling something with huge teeth and a willow post.
"Have you lost your mind? Are You crazy? What is the matter with you? That thing will eat you. It's bigger than both of us. Get back here," she said, dragging me across the stones of the driveway, scraping my face against the sharp pebbles, and me struggling to get away because I had a single-minded mad desire to wring the neck of a beaver.
Did I mention we live not far from a bog? Thus, mosquitoes are aplenty. Yes, New Hampshire is full of bogs, making me think I am in Scotland at times. Well, Mr. or Mrs. Beaver (I don't know which it is) have made quite a home in the boggy area just down the road on the other side. I went down there, and I can see every fecking single one of me mailbox posts in that pile of wood rubble and me new mailbox is up there too! The furry thieves have stuck it up on top so I can see it. Yup, they did! You can read O'Sullivan right off the side of the box. They did it to taunt me. Tonya said she didn't know if I should cry or feel complimented that the beaver family now call themselves O'Sullivan. I wouldn't put it past our postman to deliver out there. Sigh.
We reasoned the solar light was what kept the beavers away. This weekend, I caught meself the death of a cold from being in the moist dew of the night. It won't be until next weekend that I will install A BLOODY LAMPPOST, and yes, another bleeding mailbox with a post! Oh, and this time, it will not be made of willow, which I have been told is a favourite food of beavers. The only reason I got willow in the first place was because me wife prefers it because it looks "rustic" and it's the 'green' thing to do. Well, no more!
And you are worried about how you look in a bathing suit. You should see me face. It isn't a pretty sight, not with the scraped raw nose, scratched cheeks, running nose and eyes, not to mention all those mosquito bites. I be a sight I am.
That old couple drove by as I was filling in the post hole (so I don't inadvertently step in it and kill meself) and I could hear the woman saying to her husband, "Oh my, his wife must have taken an axe to his face." YUPPERS.
But me story doesn't end here, yes, there be more. Those varmints know how to rub salt in a wound they do.
Anyway, here's a picture of how they decorated their place with ME MAILBOX! AND I circled one of the varmints out there admiring it. Gees!
Gabe
Copyright © 2006 All rights reserved
R. Linda:
Someone (at first, I thought it was the Jehovah's Witnesses) kept batting down me mailbox. Therefore, yours truly had to slog his way to the Post Office, and I told you about the postmistress down there. Yikers, she's as bad as Lois one meadow over and a hundred brain cells lighter, and like Lois she makes me repeat things like she can't understand me. I be a foreigner from some country that "Don't speak the language." And Lois does it just to hear my accent. Nice huh?
Last week, someone ran over me mailbox. I went to Lowes and bought me a new one. It took me a good afternoon to get the hole dug, dig out rocks, pour the cement in a bucket, plant the mailbox post, and let it set overnight. The following day, I went out there, and the post was gone, broken off. The cement bucket was sturdy, but the post had decided to leave and become a fence post someplace.
So after a lot of me cursing (which I do a lot of late), I dug out the cement bucket. I got back to Lowes and got another bucket, another post, another bag of cement and some dirt because I had to re-dig the bucket out, and I'd need dirt to fill it back in. I came back to find the hole filled in! Yours truly is hopping mad now. It is bad enough I have spent countless weekends repairing my leaky roof, and now I be out doing the mailbox twice because someone thinks it is a funny time for Gabriel.
SIGH
I dig the damn hole AGAIN, throw out the set cement bucket with a bit of post still attached, mix the cement again, place the new bucket in the hole, put the new post in the bucket in the hole, and gently pour the new cement into the bucket with the post, in the hole, and Colonel Mustard is in the Library with Miss Scarlet . . . but I be off on a tangent. I left the outdoor lights on and waited on the porch in the dark, waiting. For what? I have no clue. About 2 a.m. I go off to bed reluctantly because the wife is having a hissy I be sitting outside with the mosquitoes as company.
The next day, bright and early before Tonya is even up, I get me boots on and in me jammies I go slogging out to the end of the driveway to find . . . to FIND THE DAMN POST IS BROKEN AGAIN!
I was fighting mad. I started cursing, and before I knew it, there be me wife running down the drive in her pink terry robe and fuzzy slippers (yes, the same that Weasil donned for the Jehovah's people) (see The Jehovah's Witness Visit or, Come Have A Bath - 24 July 2006), yelling at me to shut up I'll wake the world. I tried to communicate with her what happened by pointing (it was the best I could do since I was foaming at the mouth). Like a dumb arse I was gesturing all over the place and it took me a good few minutes to realise Tonya was standing still, smiling shyly with embarrassment I turn round and there was an old couple sitting in their car watching me with dire concern. They thought we were having a domestic argy in the middle of a backcountry dirt lane. I took hold of me wife's arm and turned her toward the house as I waved the old couple on. I was sure they thought I was taking her inside to beat her up and the police would arrive soon.
It was Sunday, and I did not feel in a Sunday kind of mood. No indeedy. I was furious at who? I didn't know who, and that was my problem. Tonya went to Home Depot this time and got the same things again, except the post. This time, it was huge (nothing was taking that baby out), and she went with me for moral support while I refashioned the hole, mixed the cement and put the new post in. She had bought a solar light for down there, and we set it up and left.
The next day was Monday. I had to go to work; I had nearly forgotten about my mailbox post until I drove to the end of my drive and saw it was nicely in the cement. I'd fill it in when I got home and put the mailbox in if I had time, and off I went, happy as a clam. I got in late and did not have time to do any of that. It was like that all week long. I vowed on Saturday that I'd get it all done and pick up all our mail that day because it wasn't being delivered.
One of Tonya's friends came by on Friday night to drop off some cookie tins she had borrowed. She had a few drinks someplace before she came, and I offered to drive her home, but she refused. I should have been more adamant because as she left, she ran over the solar light and killed it. Yes, R. Linda, it lay dead in the road.
Saturday morning, I get the new mailbox, me screwdriver, and down to the end of me drive I go to find the post is again broken off! I threw everything down, and the screwdriver bounced back off the road missing me head as I danced around cursing. I know you are probably sitting there with a sneer, but I certainly wasn't dancing around with one. I was near to tears, R. Linda. I crumbled onto my knees, raised my mailbox over my head, and yelled, "Why me, Lord, why me?" It was then the Jehovah's Witnesses drove slowly past, shaking their heads in an "I told you so" way, and once they passed, I sobbed uncontrollably. Well, I did the first, not the second, but it does sound rather dramatic.
I don't have to tell you how I spent my Saturday. Same crap the next day. The post (what was left of it) has been left to rot for the past four weeks because I refuse to play this game. I racked me brains trying to think who would do this to me. Weasil comes to mind every time. But he swears he hasn't, and to be frank, he doesn't live anywhere near me, and to come up every night to shear off me mailbox post would be excessive even for him.
However, this weekend, I got all the fixings once more. I did the deed. Then Tonya and I spent Saturday night camped out in our bushes. You had to see this, there we were, sleeping bags, canteens, crisp bags, and a small tent with mosquito netting. About 4 a.m. I was awakened by a chewing sound. I look up towards the mailbox post. What do I see? A fecking beaver chewing away on me willow post. That did it! I get meself up and stamped me feet wildly like I be coming for him and he looks at me and continues on till he has the damn post down and is running off with it.
"I paid twenty-seven dollars for that, you rodent; come back here!" And off I started, but then I fell flat on me face as me wife's hand shot out and her fingers gripped me ankle to stop me from strangling something with huge teeth and a willow post.
"Have you lost your mind? Are You crazy? What is the matter with you? That thing will eat you. It's bigger than both of us. Get back here," she said, dragging me across the stones of the driveway, scraping my face against the sharp pebbles, and me struggling to get away because I had a single-minded mad desire to wring the neck of a beaver.
Did I mention we live not far from a bog? Thus, mosquitoes are aplenty. Yes, New Hampshire is full of bogs, making me think I am in Scotland at times. Well, Mr. or Mrs. Beaver (I don't know which it is) have made quite a home in the boggy area just down the road on the other side. I went down there, and I can see every fecking single one of me mailbox posts in that pile of wood rubble and me new mailbox is up there too! The furry thieves have stuck it up on top so I can see it. Yup, they did! You can read O'Sullivan right off the side of the box. They did it to taunt me. Tonya said she didn't know if I should cry or feel complimented that the beaver family now call themselves O'Sullivan. I wouldn't put it past our postman to deliver out there. Sigh.
We reasoned the solar light was what kept the beavers away. This weekend, I caught meself the death of a cold from being in the moist dew of the night. It won't be until next weekend that I will install A BLOODY LAMPPOST, and yes, another bleeding mailbox with a post! Oh, and this time, it will not be made of willow, which I have been told is a favourite food of beavers. The only reason I got willow in the first place was because me wife prefers it because it looks "rustic" and it's the 'green' thing to do. Well, no more!
And you are worried about how you look in a bathing suit. You should see me face. It isn't a pretty sight, not with the scraped raw nose, scratched cheeks, running nose and eyes, not to mention all those mosquito bites. I be a sight I am.
That old couple drove by as I was filling in the post hole (so I don't inadvertently step in it and kill meself) and I could hear the woman saying to her husband, "Oh my, his wife must have taken an axe to his face." YUPPERS.
But me story doesn't end here, yes, there be more. Those varmints know how to rub salt in a wound they do.
Anyway, here's a picture of how they decorated their place with ME MAILBOX! AND I circled one of the varmints out there admiring it. Gees!
Gabe
Copyright © 2006 All rights reserved
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