CURBSIDE ETIQUETTE

Through the Eyes of a Delivery Goddess



Below you will find links to dates when new entries are added. The stories will not necessarily be in chronological order, but rather as I remember them. I am dating them so that you can skip to new ones you haven't read since the last time you visited, and so that you are more easily able to find something you found humorous to share with others.
Slip Slidin' Away


Because I leave the house to deliver papers around 1:30 am, about a half hour before Bob's alarm even goes off, I try to sneak out the basement door. And, to keep from slamming the door and making the dogs bark hence waking him up before the alarm, I close the door by turning the unlocked knob, then lock the door with the key from the outside.

I've set the stage.

Earlier this week, I was taking an unusually large number of items such as bottles of water, food, wallet, a spare sweatshirt and two bags of cans and jars for the recycle bin in the back yard with me, so my hands were too full to lock the door from the outside. It was dark as usual (1:30am) - our motion light in the back yard does not "trip" until I am about five feet away from the cellar steps - and the sky had been dropping a steady rain for over an hour; there was not even a hint of light from the cloud-covered moon. I set some things down inside the door, opened the door, shut off the basement light, picked up the extra items and took them to the top of the dark steps to set them down so I had a free hand to lock the door. I took a couple of steps back down toward the basement door, and my right foot slid out from under me faster than an ice skater landing incorrectly after a triple axle. (Don't feel bad, I'm not sure what that is either, but it sounds good, doesn't it?) The only thing running through my sleepy mind was to lean my head forward hopefully preventing my head from bouncing like my backside down the remaning steps. I sat motionless at the bottom of the steps on the drain-clogged cement landing in about a quarter inch of wet goo trying to decide if I'd broken anything. I slowly rose to my feet, muttered a few choice words and glanced toward the next door neighbor's lit window to see if they were peering out wondering what caused the earthquake or the crashing sound of tin cans and glass jars. I closed the door and pushed a button on my cell phone dimly illuminating the door knob enough to more easily find the keyhole. I turned to walk back up the steps, still mumbling about the slime that collects on treated wood after long periods of rain, but found myself bouncing my knees and shins off of the stair treads before I'd even finished the first silent complaint, then catching my entire weight with my left hand on another step. Apparently, my feet had NOT slipped out from under me due to slimey wood, but instead because one of the stair treads broke on my way down. The tread pulled down out of the rotten runner, so the entire tread dropped down and landed on the tread below. When I tried to step on each tread going back UP, I reached a point where there was nothing to step on, jolting me forward onto my knees and empty hand. Don't laugh. There isn't a one of you out there who hasn't reached the top or bottom of a stairwell, either in search of another step that doesn't exist, or finding another step you didn't know existed. It's a jarring experience! I limped my way to the recycle bin, turning on the motion light, but I never looked back at the accident scene, just limped my way to the truck. It takes about 25 minutes for me to get to the NY Times depot where I first noticed some stiffness. I spend about an hour every night delivering NY Times and some other small papers before I either meet Bob to get my Post Gazettes, or arrive at the Post Gazette depot, and WOW, was I stiff after that hour! I must be getting old. Bob, of course, delighted in announcing my spree to our fellow carriers - he is such a compassionate person, you know.

Now, if you're looking for icing on the cake, I'll tell you that late that same afternoon, I drove my unusually sock-footed left little toe head-on into the edge of a two-inch wide slab of wood, (normally used as a table top), leaning on its side against a book case in our office. I am rarely without shoes, even in the house, and BOY, was I wishing I'd taken the time to slip on my shoes this time. ...Do you suppose that the grinding noise made when I push on the tip of my little toe is normal, or should I worry about bone chips passing through my heart someday?