Mailmen know all your secrets, even the not true ones


I bought our couch for under $100 at the Habitat for Humanity store. I don’t like to buy new things because I rarely think they are worth the price and buying from Habitat means my money is going to a really great cause. But I operate under the rule that unless I buy the item from the person selling it (i.e. Craigslist) someone probably died on whatever thing I have purchased. This means I take extraordinary care in cleaning used items that come into my home.

And while my couch is the point of this story the fact that someone may or may not have died—but probably did—on it is completely irrelevant.

I love our couch. It’s simple and modern yet fits perfectly into our decor. It’s a neutral color without being boring. It is not a woven fabric so the cats haven’t made it a scratching post and it doesn’t collect hair. Plus, it’s comfortable. And that is a really important aspect because while Cory and I both have our own offices (sort of, mine is in the guest-room and Cory’s is in the sunroom) we wind up doing a lot of our work from the couch. By work I obviously mean Cory works very hard at his actual job to keep me in my Gap skinny jeans and keep bully sticks in the dog’s mouths and I dick around doing who knows what and occasionally remember to pay our bills on time.

So I sit on the couch a lot. And the t.v. is usually on because I am a product of my generation and need to be entertained 100% of the time by multiple stimuli. And I don’t get dressed until I put on my workout clothes, which I wear until I shower and put back on my pyjamas, so I am always either disheveled and in pjs or sweaty and in gym clothes.

To understand the rest of this story you need to know our neighborhood doesn’t have curb mailboxes. We still have mailboxes next to our door and mail delivered by the same man every day. He’s amazingly nice. Sometimes when I’m walking around I’ll see him sitting under a tree eating his lunch and he always waves and acts like he gives two shits about me. He also doesn’t seem in the least bit upset that every single day my dog acts like goddamned Cujo at the door when he shows up.

Lately I have started to think that our mailman might think we are criminals or something. We are home in the middle of the day, have a killer dog, and are nearly always sitting on the couch in gross clothes with the t.v. on when he shows up. And there is a giant window at the front of the house through which he can clearly see us. I’ve taken to keeping the blinds closed a couple of days a week until I know he’s come and gone because I’m so worried he thinks we are deviants.

He’s gonna get a big tip this Christmas, but I think I also need to bake him cookies because a wad of cash might actually send the wrong message.

P.S. The dog in the picture is not the killer dog. The dog on the couch is the nicest dog you could ever meet and would gladly go home with the mailman and never think of us ever again.


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