Worthwhile

   And finally...

The Mailman Part IV: Dinner Part II

   We take our seats at the table as Arlene pours us each a glass of water and a glass of wine. The Mailman sets our salads at our places and we begin to eat. They're... delicious. Like really, really delicious. There's this crazy-good dressing and mounds of creamy goat cheese and all sorts of fabulosity happening. (I may or may not have been watching Kimora: Life In The Fab Lane the entire time I've not been blogging.) I eat delightedly, both at the unexpected deliciousness and the excuse for silence. Until...

   A cat approaches. The Mailman immediately begins a full-fledged conversation between himself, me and the cat. It's requiring a level of conscientiousness I usually lack to keep from dropping my fork. 

   "Pet me!" he purred/squeaked. 

   "I, uhh... Uh, I... eating. I'm... I'm eating. So... right. Yeah. Later," I stutter out.

   "Daddy pets me while he's eating!" the Mailman's cat insisted.

   I smiled awkwardly and shoved a giant forkful of lettuce into my mouth to avoid answering.

   May I add here that my expertise on which fork to use for what originally came from the movie Titanic? Because it totally did. Thanks, Kathy Bates. Anyway. The main course arrived on the table and consisted of chicken in a wine/mushroom sauce, pasta in a basil pesto, rolls and a corn casserole. The Mailman loaded up everyone's plates, ignoring our insisting that we had plenty; "You need more than that!" he hollered, piling on the food. The dinner was equally delicious.

   A few bites into the pasta, the Mailman's face went sour.
   "It's too dry!" he hollered, and sprinted out to the kitchen, returning with a bottle of extra virgin olive oil. He then poured it all over his own serving, then moved on to our individual plates.
   "Oh, no thank you-" my mother began, as he coated her plate in oil. I sat silently, accepting my greasy fate.
   When he got to Arlene, she covered her plate with her hands and asserted "No thank you. I don't want it."
   "You need it," the Mailman insisted, drizzling it over her hands a bit.
   "Well, I'm not going to have it," she stated, calmly.
   Very obviously disgruntled, but aware that he'd been bested, he shrugged and set the bottle down.

   We sat at the table making small talk and things started to seem more... normal. After dinner, we cleared the plates and everything was ordinary. Until...

   Arlene and I were put in charge of scraping plates. Background: Our local newspaper comes folded in a small, orange plastic bag. The bags generally aren't suitable for any other purpose, as they are designed specifically for protecting newspapers from rain and snow.  The mailman handed us one of these orange bags and requested that we put the discarded food inside it. We looked at each other confusedly and fumbled through the task, awkwardly stretching the bag to dangerous angles and trying to avoid making a mess. 

   "Don't you have another bag, sweetheart?" Arlene asked.

   "No," he answered. "Well... I do. But that's the one I want you to use."

   Looking at me with a slight smirk, she remarked, just loudly enough, "It looks like we got the hardest job."

   In a bold step outside my comfort zone, I... forced a smile and laughed awkwardly. 

   The Mailman then escorted us to the front door to teach us to use his security system. After giving us an unnecessarily thorough explanation of the process, he proceeded to punch in four numbers and open the door. I nodded, affirming my understanding. Arlene completely froze.

   "I... don't think I'm going to get that. I... I don't know, it's a lot of technology. I don't understand it, I just don't! I won't be using it," she insisted.

   "Well, you have to," he answered bluntly.

   "Why don't you try it?" I offered, sympathetically. I then walked her through it a few more times, until at last she proclaimed

   "Why that's easy!"

   I smiled and turned to walk back to the room my mother was in, when he stopped me to show off his picture of Obama's inauguration. I expressed my genuine appreciation for it and it seemed to satisfy. I again started to leave the room when he stopped me again to ask who I had voted for. I told him proudly that I had traveled 23 hours to cast my vote for Obama and he smiled broadly and launched into a speech about the election.  Arlene eventually interrupted him to tell a story of her own. I don't remember it verbatim, but it consisted of her car breaking down on the side of the road, her husband being unable to fix it and a crazy-seeming man pulling over abruptly and fixing it for them. She explained that he had terrified her, as he had essentially stormed their car with a giant toolbox and fixed it with no explanation. They weren't sure what he was doing, and considered his murdering them a real possibility until he finished and explained to them that Jesus had ordered him personally to drive up and down highways helping people with car troubles.

   "You'd think Jesus would have mentioned that he ought have some decorum," I added, smirking snobbishly, and basking in my own wit. The Mailman and Arlene stared blankly at me in silence until I turned and led the way back to our mothers. 

   We then spent about 45 minutes sitting in the living room having a lively conversation, much of it centered around Jon Stewart and how wonderful he is. I finally spoke up, mentioning I had a paper due in the morning.

   "What's it on?" the Mailman inquired.

   "Eng-Psy-The History of Economics in the United States," I stuttered out, desperately. The room nodded and my mother and I returned to the car and drove away.  About a minute and a half into the drive, we burst into hysterical laughter and didn't stop until we reached home.

Keep the Car Running

   Now,  for the third installment of the mailman saga!

The Mailman Part III: Dinner, Part I

   The drive to the mailman's house is mostly silent. My mother fills gaps in the twenty minutes with alleviating anecdotes about the scenery we pass. I sit paralyzed by dread. Anxiety I have managed to ignore for days begins slowly overwhelming me. My only consolation is that I know how fucking hilarious this is. I try to focus on that, but the immediacy of the situation makes it harder to swallow.

   We pull in the driveway and approach the door, a bouquet of flowers in hand. Noting the sign that says the doorbell is broken, we knock. After a minute or so, the mailman appears. He is out of breath. And sweating. A lot. Like... a whole lot. I'm not sure if I'm communicating this to you adequately. This man is panting, beet red and accompanied by a fuck-ton of sweat. Sweat is literally pouring from him; his face does not glisten with a few mere beads. Sweat instead floods from his hairline like rain. He is really, really, really fucking sweaty.

   Our first step into the house is shocking. The smell of cat hits like a freight train. Literally. We stumble in, gripping each other for support, struggling for oxygen. This house smells like you tied a cat around your face and wore it as a surgical mask. And I've told you that I don't fucking like cats, right? I mean, I know I said awhile back I wanted to adopt one but I was obviously out of my damn mind that day. 

   "Where's Jerome?" he bellows. (Jerome is my father's name.) 

   "He was caught up at work, unfortunately," my mother explains. 

   "OHHHHH NO!"  The Mailman bellows. "My mother was really looking forward to meeting him."

   We follow him to the kitchen, where his mother is sitting. We head into the living room together while he remains in the kitchen. My mother and I sit alone and look around.

   "I've never seen so many cat figurines in my life," my mother whispers. 

   I bite my lip to keep from laughing. Seriously guys, there are hundreds. Every surface in the house is literally covered in cat figurines. They line windowsills, fill tables and cabinets and stand single file against walls. Porcelain, china, bronze, painted, wire sculptured, stuffed animals, figurines and everything in between. Everywhere you look is another multitude of cat figurines to digest. 

   Even Christmas Cat thinks The Mailman is craycray.

      After a few moments of silence, The Mailman's mother joins us, accompanied by the other guest: Arlene. Arlene is a seventy year old resident of our town who will be caring for the cats the first week The Mailman + his mother are gone; I'll be taking the second. We sit together and make surprisingly pleasant conversation. Arlene and The Mailman's Mother are as socially graceful as my mother and they maintain an impressive fluidity, despite my random, ill-timed and awkward interjections.

   The Mailman's Mother informs us that she knew my paternal grandfather's family; all four of his siblings, in fact, though she had never met my grandfather himself. 

   "I knew I'd be able to tell as soon as I saw him," she says, of my absent father, on whether or not he was descended of the family she had known. "They all had very characteristic features... those prominent blue eyes," she explains, slowly.

   "It's funny, all five of my sisters have my dad's blue eyes, but I have my mom's eyes," I blurt out, weirdly, forcing a laugh. The room smiles and nods before moving on to a new topic, and I sit stewing in shame for having spoken at all.

   At this point, The Mailman rushes out of the kitchen to join us. He stands in the middle of us, wiping sweat on his apron, huffing and puffing. He introduces me to two of his four cats, telling me their names. I smile uncomfortably and say hello to them. What happens next nearly knocks me to the floor.

   "I'm a Princess," The Mailman rasps in a high-pitched feminine voice. "I think I can do whaaaaateeevvvverrr I want!" 

   "Yes, of course you are. You're so beautiful and spoiled!" he coos back to the cat in motherese. "Daddy loooves you soooo much!"

   "Hey, what about me?!" he cackles in a similar but decidedly more masculine voice. "I'm a Prince! Feed me already! I love to be pet! I'm so spoiled and wonderful!"

   "Of course you are," he answers back, nuzzling the cat.

   I observe in horrified silence. I lack the ability to react whatsoever. It takes every ounce of strength not to dissolve into a full-scale emotional breakdown. Fortunately, the need for a response is eliminated by The Mailman yelling.

   "OH NO!" he hollers, sprinting full speed back into the kitchen.

   His mother then resumes the conversation and goes on to tell us about her recent hip surgery, but it's hard to concentrate with the sounds I'm hearing from the kitchen.

   "GODDAMNIT DON'T BE BURNED, OH SHIT, NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO, WHAT THE HELL OH NO OH GODDAMNIT PLEASE NO, DAMN IT, GODDAMN, DON'T BURN, NO NO NO NO NO NO NO!" 

   The shouting and swearing is accompanied by the deafening sounds of pans crashing and clanging. "I can't laugh, I can't laugh, this isn't funny, I'm not allowed to laugh, my Mom will be mortified if I laugh right now, it would be so inappropriate and unacceptable and rude!" I mentally scold myself.  After a few minutes of this, he returns to the living room.

   "Was something burning?" his mother asks, calmly.

   "Yes. but it was just a little bit of garlic. I started it over," he explains.

   "Can I help you with something?" Arlene offers.

   "Well, I would certainly like some company," he answers, heading back into the kitchen.

   She totally ignores this.

   That exchange is repeated a dozen times before dinner is served, and she ignores his request every. single. time.

  

   He makes multiple trips between the kitchen and living room, each time complaining that his pants are falling off. Arlene suggests a belt or suspenders every time, and he brushes off the solutions, choosing instead to continue with complaints.

   Finally, he announces we should move to the dining room table, as salads are about to be served.

Wrong Thing Right Then

   This is going to be brief, I just have another anecdote about the mailman: I was camping with Bobby's family for Memorial Day weekend and the Mailman came up in conversation. Bobby's father, whom (It is whom, right? I'm not great with the who/whom thing) we refer to as the Ultimate Mystery and essentially worship, told me this:
   The mailman greeted him one morning and asked if his kids were off to college. Ultimate Mystery told him that Bobby's away in college and his sister is going away next year. He was about to add that his youngest hasn't started high school yet, when the Mailman interjected with "Well, you'll have a lot more time to chase your wife around!" The Ultimate Mystery stood in awkward silence for a moment, and the Mailman immediately repented.
   "I'm so sorry, was that inappropriate?"
   "Well... a little," Ultimate Mystery replied.
   The Mailman proceeded to apologize profusely, leaving the Ultimate Mystery to deduct that people had complained about the Mailman in the past and further complaints would put his job in jeopardy.

This is a picture of Bobby over the weekend in the middle of a game of Dizzy Bat.

I'm putting up one of him because I don't have one of his dad.

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.

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.