Since the commencement of wedding plans, I’ve formed a fondness for the neighborhood mailman.
No, this isn’t some last hoorah for a desperate almost-housewife. He looks silly in those starched shorts and black socks, anyway. I simply look forward to his timed arrival everyday. His magic white buggy circles round the cul-de-sac to deliver envelopes and packages with my name on them, and though he is a towering, bald, and dark-skinned man I daily fight the urge to bring him milk and cookies, a wish list scrawled in waxy crayon, and crawl upon his lap. He sensed my enthusiasm for mail, you see, and began stopping to chat. He humored my son with thrilling 5-mile-per-hour rides in the mail truck. He humored me by mimicking my childish excitement: “Oh! Here is another package for you. You must be special!”. It’s easy to see how dates blurred and every Summer afternoon felt like a crisp Christmas morn.
Last week, as jolly Saint Stamps approached the mail box, my son casually climbed in his truck. I retrieved a much-anticipated package with my left hand while high-fiving him with my right. Business as usual. Unable to contain myself, I eyed the box with laugh-teary eyes. Wild jazz hands and much hooting and hollering later, I exclaimed to my old chum “YES! I am so ready to get started on those STDs!” as I danced up and down the drive. Amid my cartwheels and fist-pumping, I’d hardly noticed the quiet demeanor of our normally chatty visitor. And just like that the magic was gone. Holiday over. Eyes dulled and awkwardly darting, the merry mail mover booted my toddler from his sleigh and smoked tires with his hasty departure. “Odd”, I thought. “He must have too many kids on his Good List today”.
Days passed without so much as a word. His smile twisted into a sour grimace. The same foot which once pumped the brake to slow now revved the engine and sped past, tossing our mail into the slot from across the street. I thought it crazy to feel so hurt by the Postman Pal Who Wasn’t, but I couldn’t help the nagging guilt that I’d unknowingly been demoted to the Naughty List.
It wasn’t until I sat down yesterday with that tragic package that the factors behind our breakup became abundantly clear.
1. A friend of mine once littered e-mails with phrases like “LOL”. I never knew what any of it meant, but I began responding with acronym-laden messages because it seemed like the cool thing to do. Eventually I learned that “ROFL” was not pronounced “rawffle” and did not imply that one was about to eat a frozen waffle. The point of the all-caps lingo, I was told, was to simplify and save time while communicating. What better time to trim the time-consuming, verbal fat than when busy planning a wedding? My friends are still new to this hip speech, but that doesn’t stop me from blurting out things like this : OMG! GL 2 B DS-ed before Ima go WTF! FML! WNMT. That sentence only took my a hundredth of a millisecond to type, see? Sure, I had to write a second, third, and fifth response explaining that “Oh my God! The guest list needs to be down-sized before I’m going to go ‘What The F-word-rhymes-with-puck! Puck my life! We’ll need more tables’ “. But I feel like once everyone catches on I will certainly save a solid ten minutes over the course of six months. The poor Sir of Shipping, however, wasn’t privy to the educational tutorials on acronyms I’d sent on Facebook. He couldn’t have possibly deciphered my text-speak as he doesn’t have a phone with which to text. At least that’s what he told me when I asked him to call as soon as he had a feeling that I maybe might be getting a new treat in the mail. On that fateful day, the clueless postman heard “STDs!” and darted home to bathe in hand sanitizer.
2. As if my stunned friend needed any more convincing, the specific return address on the specific package that I received specifically two seconds before shouting “STDs!” was more than a little incriminating.
Of course the truth is hardly as tantalizing (or itchy).
I found the perfect rubber stamp, custom-made by an Etsy vendor with a remarkably misleading shop name. My G-rated purchase from Asspocket Productions was essential in finishing a fun wedding project: postcard Save The Dates.
Good news is I’m cleaner than a Clorox wipe, and the newest disgruntled employee of the United States Postal Service doesn’t work near my naughty, naughty PO Box. As I spend the weekend brainstorming ways to convince a stranger I don’t have herpes, you can send a little love (use an envelope…for protection) for The Very Bloggy Wedding Wonder Wall. I’ve got about two tons of ribbon sitting lonely and waiting for your creative contributions!
Send a note to be showcased at our wedding to
Tori “No Itch I Can’t Scratch” Nelson
PO Box 11241
Here are a few parcels of super scandalous mail sent in by readers so far:
From the ahhsome Sandi Ormsby at Ahhsome
From the sassy Beth at The Goon Room
From the cute AND crunk Emily from Hey from Japan- Notes on Moving, already getting this wedding party started right.
Bag-o-rice-&-ha-ha from the hilarious Sav at The Capital L
I know I will. Because wise reader Amy said it best,
“The only thing better than making STDs is giving them away” .