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.