Living in Sin on a Rural Route Is Not Condoned by the USPS
This post is part of the Grassroots Blogger Book Marketing Campaign 2008, and is meant to generate donations for The Rape Abuse and Incest National Network (RAINN).
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The Captain and I had been together nearly three years when he invited me to move in with him. I had mixed feelings on cohabitation at the time. If my younger sister hadn’t long since decided to shack up with her boyfriend, I might have refused for fear of offending my parents. As I mentioned before, growing up my mother cautioned us that premarital sex was the surest way to secure an afterlife of eternal damnation. Surprisingly, she was quite excited for me when I revealed my plans to make the Captain’s home mine as well. I am fairly certain
that this abrupt change in principles is due to the fact that she’d prefer a grandchild over my salvation.
With Mom on my side (and apparently praying for me to get knocked up), I took up residence in my new home Catholic-guilt free. Too easy. As far as I was concerned, everything worked out perfectly.
That is when I stopped receiving mail.
I had filed my change of address forms with the USPS (and my bank, credit cards, the DMV, etc.) about a week and a half before my actual move to prevent any serious delays with my mail. For the first couple weeks I didn’t pay much attention to the sudden cessation of flyers and loan offers. But after a month, I suspected there was an issue and called the local post office.
The man who answered the phone was very friendly until I informed him, “I’m not receiving my mail.”
“Then you’re not getting any.”
“No, I’m quite sure I should have gotten mail by now. I think there’s a problem.”
“Look, if you’re not getting mail it’s because no one is sending you mail. We don’t hoard your mail. What we have, we deliver!”
“I understand that, but I haven’t even been receiving my weekly pay stubs. So you see, I know I should be getting mail, but it’s not arriving here.”
At this point the man realized that I most likely had a valid argument and stopped to think instead of yelling at me. He asked where I lived, had some revelation about “rural routes,” and directed me to call the post office the next town over.
Again, I called the post office and explained my situation. They put my mail carrier on the line.
“Yes, Miss Willets. I have all your mail.”
“Excellent! When are you going to deliver it?”
“When you move in.”
“Uh . . . but I have. I’ve been living here for about a month.”
“You must be mistaken. My records show that the Captain is still living at that house.”
“Yes.”
“Well, I can’t deliver your mail until he moves out.”
“Um . . . but . . . yeah, you see, he’s not moving out.”
“Well then how would THAT work?” she snapped.
Long pause.
“. . . Ohhhhhhhhhh.”
Very long awkward pause.
She then explained to me that because I live on a rural route I would have to fill out a special card requesting service. I also had to make sure to list my name AND the Captain’s name as mail recipients because since we didn’t share a last name, I wouldn’t be able to get my mail otherwise.
A simple “Welcome to the neighborhood” might have been nice.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
DONATE TO RAINN HERE. And if you’re feeling especially generous, please mention the GBBMC:08 and my name & blog in the “donation in honor of” field. Thanks for your support!
Sex Ed
This post is part of the Grassroots Blogger Book Marketing Campaign 2008, and is meant to generate donations for The Rape Abuse and Incest National Network (RAINN).
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
THE SEX TALK.
I never had it.
I’m not exactly sure who was remiss in this responsibility. I can only assume the discussion was left to my mother. In which case, perhaps it’s not so much that she “forgot.” I half expect to someday receive one of those instructional books as a wedding gift, gingerly and anonymously left on my bed. Then again, considering I now share a bed with the Captain, maybe not.
Growing up, my mother never discussed sex with my sister or me, except to tell us that we’d better wait until we’re married to try it. Something about eternal damnation in the fires of Hell. So, unfortunately, everything I know about sex I learned from the public school system.
And late night cable television. (Hello, Skinemax!)
Maybe parents expect that this material will be covered in school, sparing them the uncomfortable Birds and Bees lecture. What I recall being taught in sex ed. included a litany of STDs we could contract if we didn’t practice abstinence. That’s right, ABSTINENCE. Our educators clearly had some good old-fashioned values. We didn’t have any of those progressive type teachers who began the lesson with, “Class, this is a dildo.” Hell, we never even practiced swaddling bananas in ultra-thin, lubricated condoms.
Our memorization of 101 icky diseases guaranteed to make your pecker fall off was followed by a video on the “miracle of life.” To this day I believe the film was a far more effective deterrent than the STD scare. Everyone was able to bravely suffer through the slides of herpes-infected genitals. The vast majority of the class (myself included) sunk under the desks tearing at our eyes at the sight of a newborn crowning.
But hey, we all turned out ok, right? I mean, yeah, there was the girl whose yearbook photo featured her and her baby (maybe they should have shown the “miracle of life” video sophomore year). And while we weren’t sure exactly what an abortion was all about, we were pretty sure another classmate had at least five. Clearly those girls got their diagrams of what goes where.
One day I hope to have children of my own. And I know that someday it will be my duty to initiate the sex talk. I couldn’t say for sure what I plan to tell them, but I can promise it won’t be, “Uh . . . Google it.”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
DONATE TO RAINN HERE. And if you’re feeling especially generous, please mention the GBBMC:08 and my blog in the “donation in honor of” field. Thanks for your support!
My Naughty New Toy
On my way home from work yesterday I decided to stop by Staples for a new mouse pad and some other equally unexciting office supplies. No big deal, right?
That’s what I thought until my seventh pass through the store when a salesperson, perhaps sick of listening to click-clack of my heels, finally asked, “Miss, can I help you with something?”
“Actually, yeah,” I answered. “Do you guys sell laser pointers?”
“Oh yes,” he said, suddenly lowering his voice to a near whisper, “but we keep them locked up under the counter. You’ll have to go to the Service Desk for that.”
I decided to ignore his strange look and the unnecessary emphasis on Service Desk. “Thanks,” I said and headed in the direction of the counter.
“Wait!” he said. “You are over eighteen, aren’t you?”
“Yes, quite a bit so,” I replied with an uneasy laugh. What did it matter? I wanted a laser pointer, not porn.
When I got to the Service Desk, a middle-aged woman greeted me. “What kind were you looking for?” she asked.
The kind that emits a laser? Makes a small red dot on a distant surface? So you can point at things? Sound familiar?
She answered my look of confusion with “Smooth? Textured? Special –”
“Uh . . . the regular kind?”
She began to pull out several nondescript brown cardboard boxes. “Hmmm, the regular kind,” she said as she dumped out laser pointers all over the counter. She clearly didn’t find what she wanted and emptied another box. “Well, we used to have an $18 model, but I think we’re all out,” she explained as she littered the counter with a third pile. She picked one out. “I think this is the next one up. It has a comfort grip and the batteries are included.” People began to gather behind me. “Can we get a price check on this green ribbed one?” she yelled to the salesperson all of four feet away. Folks craned their necks to see what special instrument I was so interested in. Inexplicably, I could feel my face redden. “Price check on –”
“Yeah, yeah. That’s great,” I replied, grabbing the pointer and dodging through the crowd.
I ducked behind Register #2, safe from the judgmental stares of the scandalized Staples shoppers.
“How are you today?” the cashier asked.
“Fine, thanks,” I said, dumping my purchases on the counter.
She held up the laser pointer, “What do you plan to use this for?” she asked with a sly smile.
Surprised and flustered, I sputtered out, “For work . . . to . . .” and completely forgetting how to speak, pantomimed using a laser pointer using jerky, manic movements.
She gave me that look that says, “I know you’re full of shit, but whatever.”
“Ha ha,” I forced a laugh. “Is there some other use I don’t know about?” What did this crazy woman think I wanted it for? Maybe I shouldn’t have gotten the model with the “comfort grip” handle after all.
“Well . . .” she said, leaning towards me as if she had a most amazing piece of sensational gossip. “You wouldn’t believe how many people buy these for their cats.”
“Ha! Their cats? Really?”
(Busted.)
GBBMC 2008
If you spend any time visiting the links to the talented writers in my blogroll, you may have heard about the second Grassroots Blogger Book Marketing Campaign (click the link for GBBMC history and the full story of what’s going on).
Promoting a blogger’s new book (in this case Carly Milne’s Sexography) is always a worthy cause, but in this case, the scope of the campaign is even larger. April is National Sexual Assault Awareness and Prevention Month, so GBBMC 2008 is raising money for the Rape and Incest National Network (RAINN). During the month of April, bloggers participating in the GBBMC will be writing some of their own thoughts and memoirs on sex. All you have to do is read, enjoy, and, if able, click on a donation link to help get RAINN closer to being able to offer victims of sexual abuse, sexual assault, and rape an online hotline that provides counseling and assistance twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.
See? Your part is easy. I’m the one sharing all my tales of awkward sexual discovery.
(And yes, I realize this post should have turned up about a week earlier, but I’ve always been a late bloomer.)
Public Service Announcement
The first house I remember living in wasn’t exactly a prime piece of real estate. When the three-year-old can point out the friendly neighborhood crackhouse, you know you’re in a bad area.
Because our neighbors were a colorful assortment of characters you’d half-expect to see featured on an episode of Cops, we tried to keep to ourselves . . . and keep them away. There’s something about finding a teenage boy sneaking around your property–a book of matches in one hand, a fistful of dry leaves in the other–that makes you get territorial.
My mother was a homemaker and security guard, responsible for raising the kids and protecting the castle. She was excellent at both. Not only did Mom have the patience and endurance to rock my colicky sister every night until she finally descended into a fitful sleep, but she also managed to gently persuade our wifebeater-clad neighbor Leroy to stop tearing up the hill on his motorcycle at two in the morning (she told him she’d string a cable between the telephone poles and decapitate his Harley-loving ass).
By the time my brother came along, Mom was an old pro at sheltering us from the unpleasantness of our surroundings.
My mother and my baby brother spent many of their days sitting on our front porch assessing the steady decline of the neighborhood and chasing off the delinquents, truants, coke heads and pyromaniacs. Though a preschooler, my brother wanted to stand sentinel just like my mother. He made it his duty to handle trespassers relative to his own size, which included the paperboy’s cat. It was a rough neighborhood and that feline could have had a serious narcotics addiction for all we knew. At the very least, it liked to sleep on the hood of my dad’s car and scratch the paint.
Of course, we’re talking about a cat here. We all know that cats have no sense of boundaries and no respect for rules. This one was no different. Though it surely knew it was an unwelcome visitor, it wasn’t deterred from strolling around our yard or pissing in our sandbox.
One afternoon my brother was occupying his usual station on the porch when he spied the cat creeping through the front bushes. Springing into action, he leaped down the steps, barreled towards the cat and yelled, “Shoo!”
Startled, the animal retreated, darting back across the road. Well . . . halfway. A car came speeding up the hill just as the cat attempted its escape. Just like that, the lithe, graceful feline became a smear on the pavement.
Concerned about the effect this lesson in mortality would have on my young brother, my mother jumped up to collect him and usher him into the house. He was still frozen to his spot, staring at the bloody mess with the sick fascination that children have for suffering creatures. The cat lifted its crushed skull and twisted its neck until it could see my brother. With its last breaths it glared at him in an accusatory manner and made pathetic dying kitty noises.
Before my mother could whisk him away so the trauma of the experience would not become forever etched upon his delicate memory, my brother regarded the splattered kitty remains and scolded, “You shoulda looked both ways.”