This Would Be An Issue Only If She Really Sent the Money

This morning I woke up super-early. Somewhere in the world it was daylight, but nowhere near Arizona. There were days in years gone past when this would have been my bedtime. But now with kids and responsibilities, those days are a fleeting memory.

Normally, when I have insomnia, I read or do something mindless. Today I took the time to do laundry and clean off my desk. The laundry was self-preservation, because Marty Sunshine was about to loose his good humor if he didn't have clean socks. He does now. In the dryer.

The desk cleaning just sounded like a good idea. Isn't it amazing what sounds great when you are sleep deprived? I would like to make this very clear: if you are a real estate client and reading this: your file was not on my desk, but in my filing cabinet in my closet. If you are a tenant and reading this, your personal information is safely locked in my fire-proof strong box, nowhere near my office. If you gave me a scrap piece of paper with a phone number on it, it was on my desk.

If the Americans With Disabilities Act is ever amended, I will be the first to champion paper-phobia as a true disorder. There are those of us who suffer with it. We live, survive and do our best to get along day to day (until a sadistic bookkeeper sees fit to send another batch of papers--stop the madness Bliz!). But, we are incapable of filing. It is a disease. I promise.

While cleaning off my desk I did come across one gem. The check for the PO Box hadn't been paid. It is now late. So, Mrs. Martin's check that she said she sent last week is now residing peacefully in my locked PO Box with no way to get it until the Post Office sees fit to release the box back to me. But, no matter, none of us really believe Mrs. Martin sent the check anyway.