IT'S A CONSPIRACY. I SWEAR IT TO BE TRUE.

In January of 1999 I moved back to Indiana from the Jersey Shore.  I had been living in New Jersey for about six years, and after finally moving to a lovely little condo on the beach, got homesick for...cornfields...apparently.

One of my favorite rituals of living in New Jersey, however, was the walk to the newsstand every Sunday morning for the Sunday edition of the New York Times.

A newsstand.

Right there in the little neighborhood...next to the place where you could get the good bagels and a great cup of coffee.

We don't have newsstands here in Hoosierville.  This was a sad fact that I discovered when I tried, that first Sunday, to find a place to buy the damn Sunday paper.

Over the course of the last almost twenty years I have done everything I can think of to continue my Sunday Times tradition.  At first, I started popping into Borders to see if they had a few copies for sale. Then, when Borders closed, I would drive from Walgreens to Walgreens, market to market, place to place to find that one little hidden gem that would set aside a copy for me on the promise that I would show up every Sunday morning with a shopping list and cheerful disposition.

Once a year I fell for the home delivery marketing voodoo magic, and I would buy a subscription at the low low price of a gazillion dollars a month (!), but in the eleven or so years that I tried this, I never once received the damn Sunday paper when or where it was supposed to be damn delivered.

But, because this is me we're talking about, and because I have a head like a rock and just can't seem to learn from my past cockeyed optimism...I caved and ordered a home delivery subscription once again for the new digs here at CS2 when I fell prey to an enticing ad on the Instagrams.

Wanna know what happened?

First...Exhibit A:

Current time is 1:13 pm EDT.

Exhibit B:

In case it's hard to discern...that would be the landing in front of my door.

Sans paper.

The worst part of this story is that when I called to report the missing delivery, the guy that answered (my new bestie, Tim) recognized my name and said "Oh, hi Miss Rich!  It's been a while since we've heard from you!  Did you get your paper OK this morning?  Looks like we delivered it to 1529 South Lake...oh, wait a minute.  That looks like it might be a bad address.  Did you, by any chance, move recently?"

So after living in my house for fifteen years and missing the Sunday Times delivery for almost every single one of them, it would appear that they finally got it right and started delivering there.

Except, of course, the fact that I no longer live there.

I'm going back to bed with high hopes that somebody somewhere will take pity on me, fix the address in the computer, put their shoes and socks on, and bring me a copy of the paper later this afternoon.

In the meantime, there are things to stitch and library books to read and chickens to grill and swimmingsuits to ponder.  I hope that your very own Sunday is exactly what you want it to be...and that your paper was dry (and delivered) your weather is lovely, and your needles are flying!