Today, DHL "found" my house or rather a DHL subcontractor found my house. Apparently, my enraged email to them yesterday morning about missing deliveries found its way through the proper channels and into the hands of some poor, unlucky sod who's job it was to "cleanup" DHL's little messes.
So this afternoon, an unmarked, windowless, white paneled van lumbered
up my driveway; the kind of van always used in horror flicks. As the
driver spied me in the yard, he slowed down....reeaaallll slow....I just
knew he was taking in a good look and I'm thinking, "Lord almighty,
another one has lost his way using his GPS and not his mind again." (The
maps are incorrect for some systems in my little corner of the world.)
So, since he was having a good look, I gave him a little more....get your mind outta the gutter. I was dressed like a farm hand going out to milk..jeans, husband's flannel shirt, muck boots and a knit skull cap. I raised the sledge and slammed the wedge through the wood and the splits flew across the path of the truck. He slammed on his brakes and I picked up the axe, put the sharpening stone in my back pocket, wiped the sweat off my face and sauntered up to the van while running my finger along the edge of the axe as if to test the blade. I can't sharpen a pencil, but I can act like I can if an unmarked white paneled van is my driveway.
I was greeted by a small, sweaty man sliding nervously out of the driver's seat. The guy was shaking. Papers were flying. A copy of my email fluttered down to my feet. "Attention client en colore" was written in red ink at the top. He stutters, "Mme Diedra...." I cut him off with a gutteral "Oui" in backwoods Quebecois ...and then out comes a flood gate of French apology and he shakes and sweats himself around to the back of the van. Two boxes appear and at this point, I realize this poor guy is from DHL and my Christmas boxes have arrived. But this guy is so far gone in his imagination, I might as well keep up the pretense. He pushes the packages in my direction and I, with my hands full of lumberjack axe, grunt and point to the ground next to the van. He can't break his sight line with me and shoves the boxes to the side as if they contain TNT. I sign while he utters more French apologies and I remain silent. I nod a g'day to the man. Stepping once more up to the fire wood, I split the next log perfectly sending another piece flying just in front of the van. The man spun gravel to get the heck outta there.
I'm not exactly sure if the house is going to back in DHL's good graces, but thank you Dad, for treating me like a son, at least some of the time. My skill bank is vast and large and sometimes put to messing with people's heads. Forgive me.
So, since he was having a good look, I gave him a little more....get your mind outta the gutter. I was dressed like a farm hand going out to milk..jeans, husband's flannel shirt, muck boots and a knit skull cap. I raised the sledge and slammed the wedge through the wood and the splits flew across the path of the truck. He slammed on his brakes and I picked up the axe, put the sharpening stone in my back pocket, wiped the sweat off my face and sauntered up to the van while running my finger along the edge of the axe as if to test the blade. I can't sharpen a pencil, but I can act like I can if an unmarked white paneled van is my driveway.
I was greeted by a small, sweaty man sliding nervously out of the driver's seat. The guy was shaking. Papers were flying. A copy of my email fluttered down to my feet. "Attention client en colore" was written in red ink at the top. He stutters, "Mme Diedra...." I cut him off with a gutteral "Oui" in backwoods Quebecois ...and then out comes a flood gate of French apology and he shakes and sweats himself around to the back of the van. Two boxes appear and at this point, I realize this poor guy is from DHL and my Christmas boxes have arrived. But this guy is so far gone in his imagination, I might as well keep up the pretense. He pushes the packages in my direction and I, with my hands full of lumberjack axe, grunt and point to the ground next to the van. He can't break his sight line with me and shoves the boxes to the side as if they contain TNT. I sign while he utters more French apologies and I remain silent. I nod a g'day to the man. Stepping once more up to the fire wood, I split the next log perfectly sending another piece flying just in front of the van. The man spun gravel to get the heck outta there.
I'm not exactly sure if the house is going to back in DHL's good graces, but thank you Dad, for treating me like a son, at least some of the time. My skill bank is vast and large and sometimes put to messing with people's heads. Forgive me.
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