Please, Mr. Postman, I Don’t Want a Divorce

Contrary to popular belief, the postman does not always ring twice. Sometimes post people only ring once, and other times they knock feebly so that no one could possibly hear them.

This fact almost ruined my marriage. Michael has a door obsession. I was home on Monday when the post woman attempted to deliver the blessed doors he’s been dying to put his hands all over. I have no clue why I didn’t hear her ring or knock. She left a little note that said, “Blah blah blah, I still have your junk. Tough luck.”

Yesterday, Michael asked me to please make sure I got his doors for him one way or another, or he was going to “file the papers”. So, I waited around with my ears pricked up until about three o’clock. At that time, a feeling crept up on me that somehow this stealthy wench had foiled me again. Curses! So, I checked the mail and sure enough, she had dropped off pizza coupons.

Damn this conspiracy. The US postal Service is trying to get me divorced and make me fat! So, I called the post office and asked in my nicest phone voice for them to please keep the package there for me so that I could pick it up today.

I take Charlotte with me and we make it to the post office at about noon today. I give the lady behind the counter my ticket. She leaves and comes back about five minutes later. She mumbles, “Did they attempt to deliver this yesterday?” I said, “They attempted to deliver it Monday. I’m assuming they also attempted to deliver it yesterday. I called yesterday and requested that it be kept here.”

I lose hope. The woman goes into the back and either has lunch or does her nails. I don’t know which. All I know for sure is that she did something to kill some time so that she would be more believable when she told me finally that the package just was not there.

I did not sob openly. I tried to retain my dignity. I stood there with her and tried to work out a suitable meeting place for the package and me. She said this probably wouldn’t have happened except that our regular postman is on vacation.

I may have offered to pay a ransom at this point. It gets a little fuzzy here. The lights seemed bright, and I guess I panicked a little. I vaguely recall screaming, “I’ll see you all in hell, you fascist bastards!”

Anyway, on the way back to the house, I explained to Charlotte how, if we saw a post office truck, we might have to run it off the road.

To make a ridiculously long story a little shorter, I’ll just say that our temporary postal worker almost missed me again. When we got home, I opened the kitchen door and pushed the buttons to open the garage. My plan was to keep an eye out for her while we ate lunch.

Well, she had apparently already tapped on my front door with a blade of grass and was preparing to bolt off into the bushes when the garage door opened. She knew she’d been caught, so she had to finally give me my just reward.

Michael is not divorcing me. Not surprisingly, some of his doors are broken, though.

I am so aggravated about this. For heavens sake, lady, ring the bell. You don’t need to ring it twice, but by all means, ring it once. A marriage could be on the line.

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