Please, Mr. Postman.

We may not be getting any more mail from now on, because I think the postman is afraid of me.

A few weeks ago, the Mister and I went Christmas shopping, and started in on the presents for the kids. We start the lengthy process in November, because A) we do all of Christmas on a strictly cash basis, and spreading it out over a couple of paycheques means we don't have to eat popcorn for dinner in December, and B) the stuff we want to buy is still in the stores in November; by December you know all you will be able to get is toothpaste and potatoes for the little darlings. Anyway, we bought a bunch of stuff, which I know will thrill them, and we put it away where they are unlikely to stumble upon it.
I got Thing 2 a very nifty craft book, from Klutz.com. (Which is a terrific company that makes the most wonderful activity books, and I highly recommend them if you have someone to buy for who is between the ages of 8 and 14, or a middle-aged, suburban housewife.) For whatever reason, perhaps I was having a stroke at the time or something, I put the book away somewhere safe, not with the other presents, and have not been able to find it since. And the thing that makes me really mad is that I distinctly remember saying to myself "you really shouldn't do this, you know, you should put it with the other stuff".
So, after everyone was gone out of the house this morning, and before I did anything else, I took a real tear around the place and still could not find the stupid thing. As I stood in the middle of the living room, pulling at my hair and yelling at myself, I saw that the postman was crossing the front lawn with a look of alarmed panic on his face. And then I realized he was watching an angry, crazy woman in her pajamas going all "Wicked Witch of the West" on the cat's ass about finding the Christmas presents.
I guess we don't have to worry about shoveling the walk anymore.