October 24, 2009

Fact is Better: Mr. Mailman and The Girl in Apt. 4

A few months ago I wrote about the trouble I was having with my postman. The abbreviated version of my postman woes is: we had a wicked awesome no-nonsense chick postman (postwoman? Postperson?) who delivered our mail every single day at 10am. And then one day, she disappeared and this relatively lazy postman started working instead. He liked to get us our mail at like 4:30pm. Or not at all. He also wasn’t a fan of ringing the doorbell or knocking on the door when he had a package for us. For example, once he had a package for me, saw me standing at the window and, while deliberately staring at me, left me the “sorry we missed you” pink postcard.

Until one day I called him out on his ho-hum attitude.

Now our mail gets here at 3:30.

Anyway, the following two conversations happened with him and me recently. And they are weird enough that I felt they needed to be shared with the world:

After my first roommate got married and bought a house I got a new roommate. I went into the mailbox and scribbled her named out, writing my new roommates name underneath. But, she lasted a month before I evicted her (a whole story I can’t even begin to get into). So, I went back into the mailbox and scribbled her name out. Just to make sure Mr. Mailman knew I still lived there, I circled (multiple times) and high-lighted (in multiple colors) my last name.

Me: *after climbing out of my car, I begin walking to the front door*
Postman: *nod*
Me: “Yeah, so, it’s just me now.”
Postman: *looking at me strangely*
Me: *gesturing spastically to my mailbox where the names had been scratched out*
Postman: “I noticed. You’ve gone through two roommates in a month now.”
Me: *grunting* “Meh. I keep kicking them out.”
Postman: “You’re better off alone.”
Me: “Yeah, I’m kind of a diva, anyway.”
Postman: “I can tell.”
Me: *glaring*
Postman: *smirking*
Me: “I have to go now.”

A couple weeks later it’s absolutely pouring outside, but I’m standing behind my car playing with dry ice.
Me: *I nod to the postman as he walks by, his raingear dripping steadily*
Postman: *nods back*
Me: “Hey, how ya doin’?” *walking to the front door*
Postman: *heavy sighs* “No little kid is thinking, ‘Gee, when I grow up, I wanna be a postman’ today. *another exceptionally dramatic heavy sigh*
Me: *raises one eyebrow* “Awww, Eeyore, are we gloomy today? Listen, man, I was outside, too, so I don’t want to hear it.”
Postman: “Why?”
Me: “Was playing with dry ice.”
Postman: “Why’re you playing with dry ice?”
Me: “It’s so I can blow up some mailboxes.”
Postman: *glares at me*
Me: *smirks*
Postman: *really glares at me*
Me: *stops smirking* “I really like getting my mail on time.”
Postman: “Not that much apparently.”

Suddenly it seems like I’ve been going days without getting mail lately.


Maybe I should leave him some cookies . . .

. . . or dry ice.

True story.

Further proof that fact is better than fiction.