Saturday before Easter saw an item in the mailbox whose appearance was familiar when I was working but I thought I'd never see again: the payment mail out from my former employer. It was a few more dollars from vacation and furlough, which I hustled off to the bank in case said concern disappeared into a chasm between Staples Center and Chavez Ravine. Reeking of self praise, I cleverly note those places are epicenters of diminutions of hope for certain tenants.

Speaking of disappearance and diminution, my federal tax check showed up a few days later. But as a batch the mail was most interesting, and most of all was something from the California Retirement overlords. The first thing I saw after my genuine Fort Lewis Fire Department letter opener led the charge into the contents was "$!!!! less". Darn, or a more potent breath expelling agent, I said. Retirement may not have been such a good idea. Read more properly, it turned out the document was informing me the two years' bait my general class was offered for choosing retirement was now kicking in. Yes, we had been informed this goodie would take a while. The proper phrase containing the original scary stuff was: future payments will be so many dead chief executives less taxes and so forth.

So the next check will be a very nice definition of retroactive, indeed, and subsequent ones will shine a bit brighter.

Who knows what car issues and meds will come up, as they probably will, but for now it's better than not having happened and for the moment I'm polishing my nails, stifling a yawn----comfortably numb. Having the pudding before the meat! "The wall" has happy graffiti on this brick.