I was so sure I'd have something from Netflix in the mail today that I wandered out to the mailbox at 2:30 just to check. When I go that early, I almost always have to make another trip at 4:00, but today the mail was in. Alas, no movies were included. It's the first time it's taken more than two days after the notice of shipment, and it makes me wonder if one of my neighbors down the street isn't watching my copy of Angel Eyes. If so, I hope they return it so Netflix will send me Grateful Dawg.
Since I didn't get my heart's desire, I combed through the mail I did get to see if there was something to compensate for my disappointment. Anything besides the usual credit card come-ons and charity appeals, that is. I must be known far and wide as a soft touch with lots of dough. (Yes on the former, no on the latter.) I pick my own credit cards and charities, so most of this mail goes in a pile of papers that will find their way through the shredder.
But what's this? Two CDs, in separate packages. Did I order two new CDs? The first one is the soundtrack for South Pacific, the ABC version with Glenn Close. Yes, that sounds like something I'd order. The other one is the new Etta James, and that's definitely something I'd order. Plus, two mailers from different record club memberships that I must remember to send back, so that I don't have to wonder six weeks from now whether I ordered the new Celine Dion. (Actually, I wouldn't wonder about that at all.)
It's April anyway, and I don't buy any CDs or DVDs in even-numbered months.
Here also is this week's issue of Baseball Weekly, with Scott Rolen and Larry Bowa on the cover, and the spring edition of Amnesty Now, with an article entitled "The Ashcroft Raids." I think I've already decided which one I'll read first.
That's all, though. No movies, not to mention no cards or letters from real people. The last bit of personal correspondence I got was a birthday card from my insurance agent. Does that count? No? It came a week late anyway.