Going Postal

One of the casualties of our recent home improvement flurry (more on that later, MORE MORE MORE until your head explodes) is the elimination of our mail slot. When we bought our house we had two, one in the door and one permanently imbedded in the entryway, but with the installation of our new door and the poorly-planned plastering-over of our other mail slot we are left with none.

Then there is the issue of Rigel and I not being able to find a mailbox that is aesthetically happening while still being adequately functional, meaning can it look hip while shielding our bills and letters from the elements while still enabling us to receive our mail without having to step too far out of our house so as to be seen by other humans or other intelligent lifeforms? How we struggle, us modern creative types! (Oh, here's a joke I just made up: How long does it take two designers to put up a mailbox? Fifteen years and five minutes. Fifteen years to pick one out and five minutes to drive the nail in! Hahahahah!!) Bottom line: Our house is, sadly, bereft of an official repository for my People and Oprah magazines.

This has gotten our mail carrier's panties all tied up in a knot. Not to mention the fact that he is our substitute mail carrier, who are usually malcontents to begin with, burdened with having to take on another comrades load while that slacker is off at some Club Med Postmaster's Retreat soaking up the sun and showing some unsuspecting mailbag hottie his discreetly and intimately positioned 'Do Not Bend' tattoo.

A few days ago there was a knock at the door, which is unsettling enough, what with having to stop my game of Tetris and put on some pants. I was greeted by a visibly irritated mailman, holding a bundle of our mail in one hand and glowering at me. "Do you HAVE a mailbox?" he sneered. I started to regale him with my redecorating woes and the demise of said mail slot, offering him a chair and a nice glass of chardonnay, but he just thrust the bundle into my hands and mumbled, "GET A MAILBOX" while he walked away, shaking his head.

He repeated this charming routine again the next day, only instead of shaking his head he did one of those sucking-air-through-your-teeth kind of whistles followed by an impressive rolling-of-the-eyes as he walked away. I considered for a moment giving him a hard kick in his wide khaki-clad ass as he walked down the steps but thought of my children who would miss me so as I wasted away in solitary for assaulting a government employee.

The next day he pounded on the door and once again inquired, "Have you gotten a mailbox, YET?" Seeing as it had been a WHOLE FREAKIN TWENTY-FOUR HOURS since he had last appeared on my doorstep to point out my mail receptacle shortcomings, I started to apologize profusely, explaining that we were waiting for the plans from Frank Gehry to arrive, and then it would be another two weeks before our rare imported wood from the Netherlands came into port after which we would have to wait an additional three days for our illegal underage Thai workers to clear customs and then another five weeks for them to build the thing and oh, did I tell you about the hand-polished inlaid abalone shells and NO WE DON'T HAVE A FUCKING MAILBOX YET CAN YOU JUST LEAVE THE MAIL ON THE DOORSTEP AND LEAVE ME ALONE?

Here is what I've made for him today:



Sigh. I hope he likes it.

Archive File: Cranky | This Life

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