The week of five.

Somewhere in between work and baseball and softball and swimming, I have found a very short amount of time to write.  FINALLY.  As it turns out, Week Five on the job is the particular week I've been eagerly anticipating.  It's the week that everything turns good.  My body has caught up with my job and I no longer fall asleep on the couch at seven o'clock each evening, nor do I spend ample time popping foot-blisters and scaring the kids with the oozing gush of pus that comes out of them.  Though we're only two days into this week, here is a list of all of the great things that have happened, in no specific order:

An elderly man tracked me down in his truck, blocks away from his house yesterday to ask if I deliver mail to his address.  "Yes."  (I was already wondering what horrible mistake I had made to make him fuss over finding me).  He asked if I delivered mail to his house on Saturday.  "Yes."  He asked if my initials are AB.  "Yes?"  He finally asked, "Did you pay the postage due on my mail for me?"  "Oh, (sigh of relief) yes, I did." He then gave me a very long and heartfelt thank you, barely able to believe how kind it was of me to do such a thing, and then he promptly paid me back my twenty cents.  This is at least the sixth person I have paid 'postage due' for, but the first to pay me back.  And obviously, twenty cents is no big deal, but proof that common courtesy really does exist is something to write about, so I will.  Or...did.  Just now.

After sitting in the shop for a whole week and having the wrong part ordered three times, the car is fixed and purring like a kitten.  Actually, more like a kitten with bronchitis, but that's just how our car sounds when it's running correctly.  To celebrate, Kyler and I drove to town and bought a family pool pass.  And that's probably why there is rain in the forecast for the rest of the week.  Sorry.

My manager pulled me aside at the end of my workday today and using wild hand gestures, told me how wonderful of a job I have been doing.  This went on for quite some time before he pulled the Postmaster into the conversation and asked her to chime in on how great I'm doing.  She also used wild hand gestures and gave me many great compliments, then asked permission to clone me.  I'm not sure, but I think they just might keep me.  I kind of felt like doing one of those leaping ankle-claps, but breaking or spraining a bone that is vital to keeping my job is probably not an idea I should even have been dancing with.  Instead, I high-fived my left hand with my right hand and drank a soda.

And finally, the little girl who likes to call me 'Mr. Mailwoman' was so thrilled to see me today (I haven't seen her in at least a week).  When she greeted me in the usual way, her dad rolled his eyes and said, "Will you PLEASE tell her your name so she quits calling you that?!"  So I'm no longer Mr. Mailwoman, I'm now "Manna."