Disclaimer: Some parts of this blog, may be the result of a faulty figment of writer's imagination and recollection. Nevertheless, there was once a trip to the mailing house....
I am in some sort of a predicament right now. And it looks like I might need your help. But first and foremost, you have to be real quiet as I spill the fries. Or whatever it is people spill when they are wedged between steel and cardboard, yet still required to run their mouths. Life can be tough indeed, I will tell you that much. I really wish, that I had some swaddling clothes to protect my bruised skin this moment. Or gold, to pay this buzzing fly to leave me alone!
Alright, listen closely now. There cannot be any sound made whatsoever. Except of course the beating of my heart. And oh my, is it beating or what? Good. We need that organ to be thumping and pumping if I must complete this story. Trust me, you would want to know what transpired earlier. Or should I say what went down? Why, how and from where it went down. You know, like measuring the distance between the North pole and the South sand. What does that even mean? Anyway, back to my story.
For starters, I am hiding behind a huge counter in the post office. Not so gently lumped and crammed between the package rack and the plastic dispenser. I know this is a weird place to be right now. It feels like these mailing places are becoming extinct. What with everyone gliding electronically, I may be the only one here. But I doubt it. Pause...... That very long pause, was me dodging a fly-by cuckoo. Mmhmm. There goes the zoo. And yes, I am still at the post office. No it was not my fault that a cuckoo flew by. Someone else must have triggered its nest. However, I stand to be corrected when this ordeal is finally over.
Pause again..... Can we hurry this narration please, because I just might be on the endangered mailers list. Another angry bird just flew by my curly locks and joined Mr. Cuckoo. And dear readers, this is where I must break my silence and tell the truth as I know it. So my true love sent me a 'partridge on a pear tree'. And I did the right and smart thing. I climbed the tree and ate all the pears. And then I waited. What was I waiting for? The cool part of course, what did you think? The real stuff, you know with the shine and sparkle. Practically, no beaks, feathers or stink!
I figured it was all inside the partridge. And any minute; 'viola', I would receive all my packages. But no! Mr. partridge only blinked at me, as if waiting to be fed. I waited for my rightful entitlement and possessions, he waited for his perceived entitlement and ingestion. Dear reader, I must confess. That claim gridlock was offensive to me, to say the least. I politely asked the placid bird, if there was more to it than met the eye. You know, like should I be expecting my substance anytime soon? But he only looked the other way. The nerve and rudeness!
So I constructed a plea bargain and presented it to the bird. If it would let me have my packages from its insides, then I would feed it postage stamps. Folks, it was like singing to a wet rock. The hoarding bird would not budge. So I threatened to perform a C-section. You know C for cutout-the-section with my stuff. Simple. But instead, Mr. partridge made that annoying and screeching sound, that bled my ears. It was torture. And then along came bird woman from across the street with her feather festooned placard. Why did she trot from her territory to mine? To play bird's advocate, that's why.
After bird woman joined the ruckus (and oh dear, was it loud). I vowed to end the parade. If Mr. partridge refused to regurgitate my sparkle and shine, then there was nothing else to discuss. So I bundled the defensive duo and headed to the post office. Actually, I was only able to carry the one that could fly. The other one called a cab I believe. Why the post office? To send it back to my true love! I mean, what was he thinking when he sent me a partridge on a pear tree on the first day of Christmas? I would have gladly waited for the fifth day. Five gold rings sounded more like it. You know with the festive shine and all.
Then it dawned on me. A very jolly revelation or (remembration) it was. My true love does not think like that. He possibly could not have sent Mr. partridge to stress me so and it was not even the first day of Christmas yet. Which now unveils another mystery. Who did send Mr. partridge? The damages he has incurred thus far, exceeds any package he may or may not have in that pouch. Can I ask you a question? Why are we discussing birds?
This blog is about my list of dos and dont's for the season. It is a list of my favorite and not so favorite things, if you please. So first, we will start with the negatives. And then joyfully and peacefully, ease into the positives at some point (smiley face).
1) Hear ye, hear ye; impassioned and rambunctious shoppers. Do not slap me around with your shopping bags, as you shove me towards the exit. Thereby trapping my purse, in the electronic sliding doors. Which then unhooks itself from its chain strap, as I vehemently tug in panic. Causing my wallet to sail briskly to who knows where? Sigh. Still searching.... Don't do it!
2) Don't grab the wrapping paper from my hands, while I am still perusing its awkward design. I know it is just paper for you, but I happen to be appreciating the artistic equation and aesthetic sequence of its expressive value. Don't do it! Snatch stuff from me that is.
3) To the pedestrians that stand at the curb, deciding what's for dinner. And if that building on Fifth Avenue is made of brick or hay. Watch out! I walk through like a towing truck. Stop playing with me. Do not obstruct my movement. Don't do it!
4) To the drivers that are rushing to planet Neptune and nowhere else in particular. I have been there and have done that. Got the bumper sticker on my space ship too. Do not honk your croaky, shriek-y, squawk-y horn at me. If I still have the lights blinking, I will walk. Even if we are down to .0143 seconds of timing. I will not break my stride.
If my delicious ice-cream drips on my fancy scarf, as I shuffle behind the guy who just got bumped by a delivery bike. I will stop and wipe of the milky stain with the last piece of napkin in my coat pocket. This may take some time. Do not rush me. Don't do it! Or you will eat ice-cream.
5) Still on the human crossing topic, this is assuming I am not a zebra. Do not nuzzle my knee with your car's metal bar or swipe my twirly skirt while you are at it. Stand back 20 feet! I know you are trying to squeeze into traffic as you attempt to climb my foot. You definitely do not want to do that, climb my foot of course. This warning also goes to the Jaguar that came so close the other day, I almost sat on it's hood. Listen very carefully. If you feel I am not moving fast enough, then get out and sprint like the animal itself. Do not rush me. Don't do it!
6) And the last but not the least. Do not send me X'd cards. I do not know any Mr. X and I am sure not celebrating his birthday too. For all I care, he may be the one who stole my dreams and locked me in a cellar as a kid, while lacerating my left eye. Or the one who stalked and ruined my hopes as an adult. This stuff is personal. How would you feel if someone stole your birthday? Or stole it from someone who has been so kind and sweet to you? (Writer is teary eyed right now).
No strange 'mas' celebrations. Am I supposed to dance the humpty to the tune of 'Go X'y its your birthday'? How lame and ridiculous is that? Do not be a grinch. Don't do it!
See you next week with the list of what you could do. Hint; keep your wallets in near sight. Wishing you a Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays and a jolly jive. Peace.
NB: Writer exits to the tune of 'I am dreaming of a white Christmas' in a 65 degree weather. A season of miracles indeed.