Dave is a mailman.
Did we cover this? Have we covered this? I think not. This happened some time ago; once a week just isn’t enough. Stay a while, have some tea.
So Dave is a mailman. He delivers letters to people and is given a paycheck in return. He’s a professional courier pigeon.
Believe it or not, it makes complete and total sense that Dave should join the United States Postal Service because the USPS has haunted me for my entire life. It’s true. My father worked there, my brother worked there, and my mother is still an employee of 13 years. She’s probably due to go postal soon. I don’t think anyone actually retires in the post office; they just lose their minds, go to jail because they stole all the mail and buried it in their backyard, or both.
I even worked there. For a day. Apparently my family is of good letter carrying stock. Dave’s and my offspring will be mail marines with all that raging postal blood coursing through their veins.
Honestly, I don’t understand how it all happened. All I really remember is that the application was just the most awful thing I can imagine doing. Applications drive me insane in the first place but this monster is the ugliest there is. It asks you where you’ve lived and who’s lived with you. For your entire life.
That’s particularly hard for me, not just because I hate applications, but because I’ve moved 13 times. And I’ve cohabitated with a lot of people (in a non slutty way). I have a tendency to exaggerate, but that one has been fact checked by the United States Postal Service, folks; that’s real.
So somehow I managed to not set the paper on fire before I completed it and I handed it in and I was hired. I ordered my uniform. I got all nervous for my first day. And then they called me the morning I was supposed to go and told me that the position was actually no longer open and they didn’t need the extra help and thanked me for my time.
The Postal Service isn’t a very organized lot, despite having the most detailed map to our country.
It was a complete waste of two weeks of my life. The t-shirt was all I had left. I kept it, much to Dave’s dismay. When I wear it casually, he has a visceral reaction. I guess it’s like him buying a t-shirt that says “Hi Jackie! How was your boss today?!” … I can understand why it might upset him.
There are lots of things about Dave being a mailman that amuse me. One is that he’s a particularly attractive man and he finds that he gets hit on by a lot of middle-aged ladies who are home waiting for the mail. The other is that his entire world is now shaped by the mail service. It’s impossible to perform a task for 10 hours a day and not have it fundamentally shape you as a person. And though Dave tends to leave his work at work, there are still days he’ll come home with the mail in his hand and say “Honey, you’re failing your duties as a mail recipient”. He gets worked up when I forget to get the mail.
And he’s for realsies.
Then he sees it’s all Presorted Standard mail and rips it up with raucous laughter.
For those of you who don’t come from a long line of good postal stock, Presorted Standard is a class of mail that is basically reserved for paid advertising. When you look to the upper right of an envelope you receive in the mail, if it says Presorted Standard, you can just throw it out. That’s a piece of mail that a company has paid money to have the Postal Service send to you without you asking. It’s how they make the bulk of their money so mailmen are stuck delivering these unwanted pieces of garbage to every single person on their routes, just to have them throw it directly in the trash.
Of course, that’s a big monumental waste of time so Dave would much prefer to bury the Presorted Standard mail in our front yard and be carted off to the loony bin. But he comes from good stock, so he delivers it all. And when he comes home to find that I’ve left a nugget of Presorted Standard beauty for him in the mailbox, ripping up his own junk mail is a welcome bit of catharsis.
He’s also losing weight faster than any normal human being could possibly match. Apparently carrying over 50 pounds on your back while you walk up and down stairs and hills for several hours a day in intense heat is quite the Ab Blast.
Obviously, I’m cleaning up my diet to counterbalance. I can’t let myself be the fat one. I just can’t.
Anyway, that’s all. You already know I quit my job (so I can live off my handsome mail carrier). And hey, I’m not allowed to blog about work because I could be fired, but Dave’s job is fair game, right?
Maybe I’ll change my blog to be a day in the life of a postal worker’s wife.
That sounds like a shot straight to the top of the famous farm. ♣