cruel & unusual

So guess who popped up at my door (again)? Yep. Mr. Mail Fellow.

And guess what he had in tow (again)? Right. One of these guys.





And guess who it wasn't for (again)? You got it.

Woe is me.

I considered telling my friendly postal worker that he's fired until he comes back with something addressed to me, but as he's built like a professional linebacker, I went with plan B.

{PLAN B: SMILE AND TAKE THE PACKAGE}



So this time the box was from my parents.





Now, I can pass up the Dora stickers and gummy bears, but bitsy mushroom cookies with the chocolate caps? We're talking flagrant cruelty here.

Still, I dutifully dispensed the gifts to the beloved grandchildren. But a few hours later, the snack packages sat open about the house, so I pilfered a mushroom here and there as I went about my daily routine.

And for the record, I was extra good with that last box. I didn't eat a thing. (Okay, well, technically, there was a partial package of pretzels/chocolate dip that sat out for a day and a half, at which point I considered it abandoned by owner. So I ate that, but it was borderline stale by then, so it really ought not count.)

But back to woe is me.

When exactly did my kids become remarkably more popular than I am? I suspect the answer is the moment my first child was born, which means it has only taken me nine years to catch on to this trend.

So um...does anybody have an urge to mail me something? Anything? A postcard? Half a stick of gum?

Things are looking pretty grim. I might have to go sing the worm song and mail a box of boxes to myself.

Hmph.