Nobody's Fault But Mine... and my Mom's

...Mostly My Mom's

   I'm sure you've all been quivering with anticipation (My college roommate was right, I should REALLY write erotica!), just waiting for me to continue with the mailman saga. The day has come, readers! We return to My Life is A Joke, to bring you the next installment of The Mailman.

The Mailman, Part II: Bad Moon Rising 

    Very shortly after I moved back home, which I'm certain you all recall, as we here at Endless Contradictions are nothing if not attentive to detail, was last December. What? You guys don't remember that at all? You forgot I ever lived anywhere other than my parents house? So did my parents! They're all "When are you getting a job? Are you planning on moving out any time in the foreseeable future? Could you at least watch Youtube clips in your room with the door closed? Fine, stay on the couch, but could you turn the volume down?" And I'm like "WHY DON'T I JUST MOVE BACK ACROSS THE STATE AND GO BACK TO JUST TALKING TO YOU GUYS ON THE PHONE?"and they're like "No, please God no, those phone calls were unendurably long and boring! Did you really think we cared about what you learned in your Women's Studies classes?" and I'm like "THAT SHIT WAS FASCINATING!" and then I turn the volume on my laptop up really, really, really loud to drown out the sound of my own failures. Anyway, the point is, back in December the Mailman mentioned to my mother that he and his mother were going on a cruise in the spring and asked if I would take care of his cats while they were out of town. Pause: I. Hate. Animals. I know they're fuzzy and soft and loving blah blah blah but they stink and are annoying and frankly, they can suck it as far as I'm concerned. I like looking at animals from a distance, not sharing a bed with them. I do like specific animals, like Bobby's dog and our duckies, although I'll admit I can only play with them for about a minute and a half before I get bored and creeped out. I'm not an animal person in the least bit. My mother responds that "maybe" I would be interested. When she asks me about it, I reply with a firm, absolute no. "There is zero chance I will ever do that in my life. Helllllllllll no," I answer, and promptly forget the conversation has ever occurred.

   If only me forgetting about something meant I wouldn't have to deal with it! Speaking of, there's tons of shit I should be doing right now instead of blogging, but ehhh... So, suddenly it's spring and the cruise is fast approaching, and The Mailman simply informs my Mother that he will be having myself and both of my parents over for dinner on Thursday to "introduce me" to the cats.

   Upon receiving this news, I unleash the moody bitch. My mother is all apologies (10 points for Nirvana fans!) and I start sighing repeatedly and refuse to make eye contact with anyone. I'm still a teenager for four months guys, let me get it out of my system while it's still socially acceptable! I leave for the afternoon and upon returning, apologize to my mother for my ludicrous behavior. "I mean it's... honestly, it's totally hilarious," I confess, and suddenly she and I are in laughter-induced tears, totally unable to breathe for a solid five.

   As the days pass, my dread for Thursday grows from a slight nag to the smoke monster from LOST. (Speaking of which... I don't even have words. I'm in deep, deep grief, guys. I don't know if I'll ever be okay again. Why why why did it have to end?!)  I complain ad nauseam about the cruelty of my fates to anyone who will listen, and anyone who will blatantly not listen and repeatedly beg me to shut up. My father keeps insisting that it "at least will be a story we can tell for years!" He then adds, optimistically, that he "could turn out to be a wonderful cook!" and it might "be a great time!" I shake my head lethargically, emphasizing the single tear sliding down the left side of my face. Okay, okay, so there wasn't a single tear. But it made the story better, didn't it?

   I spend Wednesday night awake in bed, sighing loudly to myself, lamenting miserably my unbearable misfortunes. LOST is ending and I still can't find a job and I have to have dinner with the mailman?! And I don't even know where I'm going to college next semester! Why me? What's going to happen to Sawyer? Why can't they just have one more season? What am I going to do on Tuesdays? I eventually fall asleep, but The Mailman keeps interrupting my Josh Holloway dreams right before they get good (Yeah, that is what I mean, you gutter-minds!) to make sure I have his vet on speed dial!

Don't tell Desmond, but I'll miss you the most, you beloved incarnation of sex appeal, you.

   Thursday morning, my father "realizes suddenly" he has "a lot of work backed up" and "won't be able to make it." Which leaves just me & Momma to face dinner. 

There would be the creepy LOST animation & music playing right now, If I knew how to do that.

Love Always Remains

These people used to define my daily life.

So Far Around the Bend

   I'm thinking of sort of reworking the general concept of this blog, which is essentially a collection of verbose lamentations on my failed/failing relationships, because that's not really entertaining or something people want to read about it. My life is actually pretty outrageous and should be documented as such, rather than being all whine, whine and more whine. So, my pledge to you dear readers, is that I will do my best to be less annoying and emo. I've decided to start including a segment I'm going to call "My Life is A Joke." Here is the first installment.
   A temporary break from your regularly scheduled programming of whining about dysfunctional relationships, to bring you a saga called The Mailman.

The Mailman, Part I: An Introduction

   My mailman is insane. Seriously, guys. He's nuts.

    Many people have two doors; a heavy door and a thinner door, often with a screen, so you can leave the bigger door open in the summer months to allow air into your house. Unless you're into air conditioning, but I'm not. If you choose to leave your door open, the mailman takes this as a personal invitation to enter your house and announce his presence. Very, very, very loudly. It usually goes something like this: "GOOOOOOOD MOORNINGGG! HELLLLLLOOOO! IIIII'VE GOT YOOOOOUR MAAAAAAIL!" 
   I can't tell you how many mornings I have woken up to the sound of his hollering. Yet somehow you never get used to it or expect it; every single time you hear it is as terrifying as the very first

   He's 62 years old and stands about 5'5''. This is two years and four inches beyond my mother. Whenever he sees her, he holds his arms wide open and yells "WHO'S THE CUTEST MAILMAN IN TOWN?" My mother, God bless her and her social graces which I wish I had inherited, smiles politely and assures him "It's gotta be you."

   My town has about 2,000 people in it, and probably 1,900 vote Republican. Maybe a slight exaggeration, but you get what I'm saying. I'm surrounded in old white people who spend their winters in Florida and their summers on sailboats in the river my town is on. Have I ever mentioned I live by the river? (10 points if you now have "London Calling" in your head!) 
  So, I mention this because the mailman is a rabid Democrat.Which I understand, respect and appreciate. I spent 23 hours on public transportation to vote for Obama, okay? I'm as hardcore Left as they come. But the mailman is something else entirely.

   The day after the 2004 election, I wore all black to school. I was 14 and "deep" and "taking a Political stand," as if Bush himself was going to hear that a freshman in high school dressed kinda goth for a day and would resign or something. Whatever, I was weird. Anyway, the mailman went a little further than I did.

   He ran into my mother at the bank that day, and essentially lost it. He knows we're Dems because he delivers our mail and sees the type of things we subscribe to. Feeling a disillusioned (and seriously misplaced) camaraderie, he began to express his disgust with the election results, which very rapidly escalated to a point where he was, as she puts it, "screaming, spitting and foaming at the mouth." At the bank. In front of everyone. In our 90% Republican town.

   Now my mother is a classy lady. She is nothing if not demure. She stood, absorbing his dementia, mortified and desperately seeking an escape. Granted, she was pretty disgusted with the election results herself. But she was far too dignified to spit all over people's faces about it.

 

This is the river I mentioned.

  

   One time, while on his route, the mailman made Bobby come to his truck and carry a package to an address down the block, claiming it was "too heavy"  for him. Bobby was about 17, and while he's over 6', he was skinny as a rail- as he said yesterday, about an old picture of us, "I look like a lanky cricket man here... That was my look back in the day."  He did this with such nonchalance, I can only assume that it isn't out of the ordinary for him to recruit teenagers to perform his mailman duties for him.  And the funny thing is, Bobby says the package wasn't heavy at all.

 

This is the "lanky cricket man" picture he was talking about. And yeah... a little. 

By the way, we were 15 in this picture if anyone's keeping track.

   My sister's boyfriend, his brother and his father run a landscaping company. They're called Triple H Landscaping. If you're in the area, hit 'em up! Hooray family businesses! 

   I mention this, because they are employed by the mailman. He routinely invites them in for meals while they are mowing his lawn, and they routinely politely decline. One time, he ran out into the front lawn in tighty whiteys and yelled "WHO WANTS SOME SAUSAGE?" Understandably taken aback, they all stood in awed, miserable, confused, awkward silence for about 30 seconds until he continued with "I'M THROWING SOME SAUSAGE ON THE GRILL, WHO WANTS SOME?!?!?!"

   Once the mailman simply set an extra place at the table and informed my sister's boyfriend's brother he would be having dinner with them. He sat at the table, dumbfounded, listening to the mailman bash and clang things around in the kitchen, swearing loudly the entire time.

   Now, I know it's 100% anecdotal, but is that enough evidence to convince you of his madness?

   Oh no, I'm noticing something alarming, and I feel compelled to make a list about it:

Things The Mailman & I Have In Common:

           1. We are 5'5''
           2. We live with our mothers

           3. We are passionate Democrats

           4. We have flipped a shit on my mother about some crazy shit that is in no way her fault

           5. We make Bobby carry shit for us, claiming it's "too heavy," when really, we just don't feel like doing it ourselves. 

           6. We don't think twice about going in the front yard in our underwear

           7. We have shared meals with the owners of Triple H Landscaping

   This saga has taken a turn I'm not sure I like..... But I'll still finish it.

As Lovers Go

   Last night I (very!) unexpectedly heard from an ex; the last on my list of favorite first kisses, which was maybe the most perfect first kiss I've ever had. I guess now he needs a name; I'll call him Dear Sergio.
  We met and walked through the streets of our silent little town, eventually settling on opposite benches in the park, catching up and reminiscing simultaneously.
   "Remember when we just walked up to those random kids and lay down next to them over there," I asked, pointing to a large cement circle that serves as a fountain in the summer months.
   "Yeah, that was... Why did we do that?" he asked, and we both laughed.
   "Remember when you used to break into my car during soccer practice and take pictures of yourself wearing my clothes and send them to me?" he asked, smirking.
   "Yeah, that was awesome." 
   "No wonder I had to start locking my doors," he said, laughing, and then added "Actually, I still don't."
   I immediately began plans to sneak back into his little red car and do it all over again, before remembering he's dating someone else. They got together three days after we broke up, almost two years ago. Ouch, right?  But I understood. I was shady and scared and secretive. We were young. I was leaving for school, moving 500 miles away at the end of the summer. Our relationship was as temperamental as the constant thunderstorms we had that summer; furious, fleeting, recurring. We spent hours in each others' arms, watching them, quietly absorbing our beautiful reflection. Until he found someone who would hold his hand in front of people. Someone willing to change her relationship status on facebook. Someone who could fall in love with him. Who did.
   "A lot of crazy stuff has happened in this place," he said, motioning around us.
   "Yeah... I think I threw up on you here somewhere," I admitted.  He laughed with his typical good nature, and pointed out the place where it had happened. (I've never understood how he had any interest in dating me after that, but he did. His libido's a champ, I guess.)
   "It all seems like it just happened, but it was so long ago. Years." Neither of us could comprehend how much time had passed.
   The time we spent on the benches stretched as slowly and sweetly as the years we'd spent together, and our subsequent years apart. We reveled in each others' company, in how easy and comfortable it still is. When we finally got too cold to ignore, he walked me home and hugged me goodnight, holding me a little too long, needing to decimate the distance silence and apartness had created.
   Lying in beds just blocks apart, we texted back and forth, him trying to admit to missing me as nonchalantly as possible. I sidestepped the issue repeatedly, not interested in making him a cheater. I've already done that. He has no impulse control and my ego is boundless. Those factors compounded with our mutual possessiveness is dangerous. It hardly occurs to us that we're wrong. Until the sun rises. And I'm sick of waking up guilty.
   I still did, this morning. I stayed in bed until noon, closing my eyes tightly to the sun's rays that peeked through my window, reminding me of the sins I've committed. For the record, we stayed in our own beds and just said goodnight. But I can't shake the guiltiness. 
   We've promised each other countless times; no matter what happens between us, we will always love each other. Because we were so blissful, so young, so volatile. And all our angst and frustration dissipated in our laughter and drawn-out embraces, our agonizing delusions. And we might. There will always be a deep current of affection and appreciation between us, I think; I hope.
   The dichotomy of night & day is hard to reconcile. The streets look so different without the sun, illuminated only by the moon and occasional streetlight. Traditionally, the night is filled with sin, but I still feel that teenage innocence under the stars.
   I'm happy for last night; the last time I saw him, it ended bitter and ugly, in heartbreak. This was sweeter. And, though I promised him the next thunderstorm, I think that's one I'm going to break. I'm not seventeen anymore, and at some point, I need to accept that he isn't mine, and hasn't been since I was. I think I'm ready to.

Birds Of a Feather

Bobby bought baby ducks!

I can't wait until they come home to meet their Mommy :)

Lucky You

   Are we over? I always knew what it would take; for one of us to really fall in love with someone else, hard enough to make us a faint, barely-existent memory. That has always been the inevitable, impending nail in our relationship's proverbial coffin. I just always hoped it would be me. You'd handle this so much better; you're so much easier to distract, and I'm so much easier to get over. 
   I swear to God, I will never, ever, ever forgive you. I wish that made me miss you less.