Update

I had my neurologist appointment on Monday. If you ask me, he says there is nothing wrong with me and is passing me off on the physical therapist for massage therapy. That sounds nice and everything, but I'm sure the insurance company is going to have a cow, a big one — a bull, maybe. Brad accompanied me to my appointment and had a more optimistic outlook on what the doctor said. We'll see what happens.

"Maybe you need retail therapy"
After my appointment I was annoyed and grumbling as we called back to the car, "I don't need physical therapy. That's not going to help anything. Grrr. Grrr. Grrr." Brad says, "Maybe you need retail therapy. That will make you feel better." I have, possibly, the most wonderful husband in the world.

The Mazda/Sands is at the car doctor
We took it in Monday morning. Should be done by Wednesday afternoon. Yay!

I was asleep 2 minutes earlier, so maybe I misunderstood
The doorbell rang at 7 a.m. today. But I didn't realize how earlier it was until I'd rolled out of bed and started shuffling toward the door.

So, there stood a guy, a county trash guy, and what I thought he said to me was, "I hit the mailbox with the trash container, because it was too close, (of course, because that would make it my fault), and knocked some rocks off." "Um, OK," I replied, but then, coming out of my sleepy hazy, sent him over to the landlord. I'm sure she was thrilled.

However, as I was sitting here checking my e-mail at 7:15, I thought, "That's weird. I always hear the garbage truck and I didn't hear it this morning. And you'd think that with him hitting the mailbox, it would be even louder than usual. But I didn't hear anything."

Around 7:45, I go back to the bedroom and try to wake up Brad to tell him that I'm not asleep. (He loves it when I do that.) He didn't wake up, just mumbled in my direction and flipped over. As I'm laying there, I hear the garbarge truck roaring outside. That's a whole 45 minutes after the trash has allegedly been picked up and the mailbox damaged. I'm so confused.