Nothing But Love :: golf blogger

Wall Street Journal Blues

I don't want to appear pretentious ... I am almost as fiscally irresponsible as our president and I just like to look at the pictures ... but The Wall Street Journal is delivered every morning between 5 and 6:30 a.m. Why, you may ask? I don't know the answer to that, except that it doesn't have my name on it. The woman down the hall a little gets the WSJ (see, I'm right in tune with all the other avid readers by using the initials), also.

The woman who delivers the newspaper is playing with my head. How was I supposed to know that she was delivering papers that one morning I did not let her into the building when I was walking the dogs? She wasn't carrying newspapers ... and I wasn't reading minds that day ... and I couldn't understand her fractured English ... and she was a stranger, and I don't let anyone in the door. Don't have a key? No free pass from me.

So, she is trying to get to me. Every morning, the newspaper delivered to the woman down the hall a little is right there outside her door, laying flat on the floor. My paper, on the other hand, is rolled up in a blue bag or bound together with rubber bands or both ... and sometimes it is wet, whereas the WSJ delivered to the woman down the hall a little is given the deference that business people think it deserves and is dry and laying there rectangularly in front of her door, folded edge toward her when she opens the door. And invariably, I need to walk a step or two farther every day to get my WSJ ... the newspaper-delivery lady probably knows that my financial acumen is as low as it can be for any human, and she gives me the respect I deserve when it comes to delivery of the Bible of financial wizards everywhere.

Yes, she is trying to get to me. This morning, the WSJ was laying flat, folded edge toward me, squarely in front of the door.

I don't know what I did to deserve such treatment.

Posted by Bill at May 5, 2006 10:06 AM