Rain, Snow, Sleet, And Hell

The Mailman* is not my friend. When I was a kid, getting mail was exciting. People send you good stuff when you are a kid. Birthday cards, Highlights Magazine, letters from Grandma. No kid I know has ever gotten a $300 electric bill. These days getting mail means someone(everyone) wants my money. Through rain, snow, sleet and hail the Mailman never fails to deliver as promised. Damn him.

It only costs forty-two cents to ruin my day. Lately it seems that no one can resist the bargain price to compromise my mental health. Everyday there is a freshly printed stack of insanity for my consideration. The only thing worse than having the Mailman leave his politely worded threats of financial ruin outside the front door is when he rings the doorbell ...Hell, Now What?

I briefly contemplated ignoring the incessant ding-fucking-donging. I had more than enough good reasons not to let anyone see me in my current state (picture Bette Davis in Baby Jane). I decided to be brave. There was not much I could do about the hair dye-stained wife beater and the obvious lack of a bra, but I did manage to put out the cigarette, and put on my sunglasses, before I relented and opened the door. In retrospect, the sunglasses probably only reinforced my crazy cat lady appearance.

The Mailman's face only registered slight shock. I guess he is used to this sort of thing. At least that is what I tell myself. He is a professional, this is his job. He is being paid to witness such atrocities. I made a mental note to buy him a Starbucks gift card for Christmas.

I assumed the Mailman was at my door to deliver the dreaded registered letter ( in person, sign here, you are screwed.). I know this is irrational. There is no reason, anyone would really send me a registered letter with the intention of ruining my life. I am a fatalist. I cannot help it.

Imagine my surprise, when instead, he presented me with a box. A cute box. It was not ticking. I couldn' t see if it was really addressed to me, or whom it was from, because of the sunglasses. I happily accepted the proffered loot, then tried my best to sign on the appropriate line, in spite of my temporary blindness. It took immense self control to resist the urge to explain my appearance to the poor Mailman. I prevailed, closed the door, then let out a squeal of joy, that I am positive he heard from the front porch. This was better than being a kid!

Viv (The obstinate poodle) and I set to work opening the loveliness. It took a while because, of course, scissors were nowhere to be found. (Probably for the best, because in all likelihood I would have run with them, and put my eye out just like Big Judes had warned me about for all those years). We made do with a fork and a finger nail file.

Inside the box was a surprise better than I, and all my selfish girliness, could have imagined. Look, just look! All this, and a note: “Who needs cupcakes? Love, DDHBF”. Do you see? Do you see why I love him?

It seems that the boyfriend formerly known as Doo-Doo Head, saw the post on his mean girlfriend’s blog (unbeknownst to his mean girlfriend, who didn’t even know he read it, except when forced) and ordered up a whole batch of beautiful ,chocolaty deliciousness. He is worth keeping, this one.

In an effort to show my thanks, and gratitude, the boyfriend formerly known as "Doo-Doo Head" will, from this day forward, be known as “Sugar Daddy” (slightly creepy, I know). He would have preferred Rambo, but this is still my blog.

Out-T.

* Mail Carrier, I know. Sue me.
image: http://www.tvparty.com/lostny2mailman.html