No…it’s not some derivative of posh.  It’s how they say “mail” here.  (The “o” is long.)  And we love the poshta.  Well, actually, we love receiving poshta.  Sending it back to you people is a whole other story…

But about receiving.  I have this little quirk.  To be clear, I call it a quirk, Mark calls it an obsession.  I constantly check our mail box.  CONSTANTLY.  As in, every time I walk by it.  On the way out to go to the pool.  On the way in from the pool.  On the way out to go to the market.  On the way in from the market—even though my arms are loaded down with bags of tangerines.  You get the idea.  I will even check it at midnight on a Sunday night. And every time, Mark says:

“Babe, you don’t need to check it so often.  The mail only comes once a day.”

“But I might miss it”, I explain, as I squint my eyes to peep through the two little mailbox peep holes.

He sighs loudly, taps his foot, does whatever to show his intense impatience with my….habit.

And sure enough, every once in a while, I find GOLD.  A card from home.  I wave it before his eyes and dance a little jig.  Heh!  I got something.

“Come on, let me open it up!” he begs.  “You always get to open them.  Let me do it this time.”

“Nope!  Finders keepers, losers weepers”, I tell him.

I mean, really….if he wants to get the mail, he ought to check the mailbox more often, dontchya think?????

**p.s.  We got all your Christmas cards—in the middle of January, but we got them all.  Muchas gracias, or as they say here:  Blogodaria.  You guys are muy cool!