I don’t like it when people hate me.
I just don’t like it. So, I’m really sorry, but I just won’t be able to think straight until my mail lady lets go of the grudge she’s holding against me for trying to be mysterious and not putting my name on my mailbox. She said she thought she was putting mail into a box for an apartment in which nobody lived.
I don’t believe her.
My name’s on the buzzer. Our electricity is in use more than it should be. Plus, she has seen me at least one time. We had what I thought was a pretty lovely conversation. I told her that I live here and that I have been receiving my mail. I said that as soon as I got some tape, I would put my name on the box. I didn’t tell her that it had been there before, but that then she (or perhaps the UPS person) ripped it off when taking a note explaining where to leave packages. I didn’t want to upset her. I knew she’d be upset if she knew. I smiled and said, “Have a great day!”
Ever since that conversation, I haven’t gotten any mail with my name on it. My grandparents’ Christmas party invitation never came, but I have received plenty of “To our neighbor” mail about BCBG sales and school fundraisers. AT&T wants us to please consider adding a home line. But my Netflix hasn’t arrived. I’m pretty much beside myself about that one. I mean, I’m not going to be embarrassed about this, but it is kind of gross. I finished six seasons of The Office last week. I started after Thanksgiving. It was a big accomplishment, and, yes, it is a rather witty show, but it still left me feeling a little bit less educated than I feel like I should be. Naturally, I loaded my Netflix queue with academic and cultural documentaries. Not one has come in the mail yet.
This morning I put my name on the box. Hopefully, soon, I’ll be back on track.