Sometimes, if you yell loud enough, yammer on enough and yoke the Powers That Be,

you can yodel in joy. I pulled out of my driveway this morning to go to an appointment and saw all this hullabaloo on the street.

Those are curb cuts going into our neighborhood. Remember when I wrote that open letter to our councilman? I'll be honest. That probably would have been as far as I'd take it. If you haven't figured it out already, I'm beat and bushed, bitter and nearly broken. I might be able to write a good letter and make some calls (years and years worth of calls), but I was basically just extra pissed the day I pressed publish. Perhaps ten years ago or so, I might have just put on a hard hat, gotten Oliver to go buy me a jackhammer with his lemonade stand money and done it myself. But, these days? I'm closer to being my Italian grandmother -- you know -- the one who walked around with a rosary, muttering pray that I die, pray that I die. Well, several wonderful folks in my neighborhood read it and jumped on it and encouraged me to pursue it. We all did it, and lo and behold, it worked. Thank you.

Yup and Yessiree Bob.