I tried to mail a birthday present to Tiffany today, but was thwarted by the ever-vigilant United States Postal Service.
"Please remember to mail this," Kris said this morning, handing me a small box labeled GLASS. "Send it third class."
"I'll try to remember," I said. That's what I always say when she asks me to do something. Somehow I labor under the misapprehension that the phrase absolves me of guilt when I forget to do what she asks. Which is often.
After work, I stopped at the Oak Grove post office. I was helped by a an older woman, about fifty, with dark wavy hair pulled back in one of those elastic bands. She wore glasses and a badge that indicated her name was DeAnne.
"What can I do for you?" asked DeAnne.
"I need to ship this third class," I said as I plopped the box on the countertop.
DeAnne looked at the box. She looked at me. I shifted my feet, uncomfortable under her gaze. At length, she spoke. "You can't send that third class," she said, exasperated, as if I were a child to whom she'd already explained this elementary piece of postal knowledge several times.
"Er, okay," I said. "I don't care how it gets there so long as it gets there. You choose."
DeAnne squinted her eyes at me, disapproving, and then began to punch numbers into her computer.
"It's labeled GLASS," she said. "Will it break if it's jostled around?" She nudged the box, I guess to demonstrate what she meant by "jostled".
"I don't know," I said. DeAnne glared at me.
"What's inside the box?" she asked.
"I don't know," I said. I'm sure Kris told me at one time, but I'd long since forgotten.
DeAnne's glare intensified, and she pushed the box away. "I can't accept this," she said, again using the exasperated parent tone.
I was dumbstruck. "Why not?" I asked.
"You don't know what's inside that box," she DeAnne. "For all I know, a terrorist gave this to you."
"A terrorist?" I said. "My wife gave me this package to mail. It's a birthday present for her sister."
DeAnne was unimpressed. "That doesn't matter. I cannot accept that package."
I drove home, task unfulfilled. I had remembered to mail the package, but the net effect was the same as if I had not.
And all because my wife is a terrorist.
On this day at foldedspace.org
2005 — My Husband the Chef Today I'm posting something Kris wrote eighteen months ago. It's too funny to be allowed to just disappear.
2003 — Golden Grahams In which I'm not so good at eating the most important meal of the day.
2002 — Litany of Woes Pam will be pleased to hear that I've begun to set my clocks back, switching from Daylight Savings Time (an anachronistic farce) a month early, as usual.
Ohmigod. When Kris Gates, paragon of truth, justice, and a drug-free America sides with the likes of Al-Qaeda, then you know:
They've Already Won.
Also, funniest thing I've heard today: 'She nudged the box, I guess to demonstrate what she meant by "jostled".'