Written April 2, 2025
Hello Dear Readers,
Today’s schedule decided to throw on a costume and pretend it was someone else entirely. The usual rhythm was shuffled because my wife had an unexpected mission: delivering an important document to a P.O. Box—for her boss, no less. Apparently, some government agencies still insist on this paper-and-ink ritual, as if the internet is just a passing fad.
To make matters more official (and more stressful), it had to be sent by certified mail. Proof of mailing, proof of existence, proof that we’re still living in 1997—take your pick. She could have asked her office staff to handle it, but she prefers the old-fashioned way: doing it herself. She says it’s paranoia; I say it’s perfectionism with a stamp.
So off she went early in the morning while I stayed behind, holding down the fort (and the coffee). She asked me to join her at the post office later, which I knew was code for: “Let’s make a mini date out of bureaucracy.”
Meanwhile, I tried to stick to my usual routine—well, minus the fact I got up half an hour earlier than planned. I filled the extra time pulling weeds. Yes, weeds. It’s spring, which means those green freeloaders are popping up like they own the place. Some of them were already suiting up in their cotton-seed armor. I caught them just in time before they turned into airborne invaders.
The weather? A whole drama in itself. Just a few days ago, we had a bone-chilling cold and a tornado siren serenade. Today? Practically beach weather—minus the beach. It was warm enough to tempt me into mowing the lawn, but after my morning run, I had all the energy of a sunbaked lizard. Mowing was postponed due to “low battery.”
My wife eventually returned—slightly later than expected. Something must have held her up at the office. As soon as she got back, it was time for our grand postal adventure. She likes dragging me along for these errands, claiming it’s good to “go for a drive.” Translation: “I need someone to talk to while she is driving.”
It was a nice day to be out… if you ignored the wind trying to steal your hat and slap your face with your own hair. My wife mentioned that her morning run was a battle against the breeze. And apparently, more storms are on the horizon. Classic Nashville spring: three days of sunshine, followed by tornado warnings, and then a cold snap that makes you question reality.
She’s been meaning to tackle the front yard, but weekends haven’t been kind. Every Saturday and Sunday seem to come with a side of thunderstorms, served cold and soggy. She’s also planning to repaint the washroom while it’s not scorching hot. She’s hoping to sneak that in between rain clouds, if possible.
As for me? Tomorrow’s forecast still shows mercy. I’m aiming to mow the lawn before the next act in this weather soap opera begins. Fingers crossed that the mower cooperates—and that the weeds don’t regroup overnight.