Stamp This, Lady

This post is going to seem a little cliché, but I think we really do have a disgruntled postal worker. Our house sits a fair way out of town on a road where most of the homes are just summer cottages. However there are more than enough year-rounders to make our mail person’s trip worth the drive. And even though I know my mail person is never going to read this, I don’t want to unknowingly piss her off even more by saying the very un pc term, “mail-lady.” She already seems to hate us. Everyday our mail can be found in the nether regions of our mailbox. Back in the darkest corner where the bad things linger under the fall leaves that snuck in last autumn. Under the cobwebs, where there sits the largest spider that I have ever seen live past the month of November, is our mail in a tossed stack. On the days when we don’t nearly get our hands gnawed off by the arachnoid freak of nature, our box door is left open just enough for 10 hours of weather to seep in and wet on our mail.

Is our little red flag not red enough? Is she bitter that we don’t leave her tips? Or a nice Christmas mug filled with mixed nuts wrapped in cellophane and a red bow? Perhaps she is still bitter that she had to once drive all the way up our horrifically long and bumpy driveway, then get out of her plush mini-van seat, to hike up our whole three steps only to walk across our porch just to knock on our door to deliver a package. The package had to have been so heavy, what with being a baby blanket and all.

So, just yesterday out of curiosity driven by snow covered bills, I opened our neighbor’s mailbox that sits two inches from ours to take a peek. I understand this could be a federal offence…so sue me. And there was their mail in a tidy stack near the front of their box. Son of a…!!!!