I love getting mail. Love it. Even when my mailbox is simply stuffed with junk and bran-scented Lillian Vernon catalogs and dead leprechauns, I love it. Because once in awhile, a free sample sneaks a ride into my house via some catalog or another: a packet of herbal tea, a teeny disc of soap, an industrial-sized vat of Astroglide. You just never know what the mail will bring! And tonight brought an especially exciting moment, courtesy of the U.S. Postal Service:
A hand-written note addressed to my husband!
“Look!” I shouted, handing over the quaint lil’ envelope with the blue ink-scrawled address, “You have real mail!”
He scowled, suspicious at such good fortune. Who could possibly be writing him in such an old-fashioned yet thrilling mode of communication?
I waited eagerly while he tore into the letter and pulled out a newspaper clipping. A yellow Post-It was stuck to the top of the folded page. It read: “Jason--Check this out!”
And what exactly were we being asked to check out?
An ad for a local auto dealership.
I started laughing, and didn’t stop for nearly twenty minutes. Because first we imagined some poor salesman (let’s call him Todd) sitting at his desk, handwriting Post-It after Post-It: “Ed! Check this out!”… “Jim! Check this out!” ... “Stu! Check this out!” (Plus handwritten addresses.)
“You know what would have made this even funnier?” my husband asked. “If the guy had written, ‘Check this shit out!’”
Oh my God, why can’t I live in a world where things like that happen?
It struck me as even funnier at first because we suspected the entire audacious sales pitch was a joke being perpetrated on us by our friend Scott, who two years ago thoughtfully decorated our sidewalks with handwritten lyrics to various songs by Poison, Whitesnake, and Bon Jovi. Last week he hauled a 25 pound block of ice two blocks to our driveway and placed it in front of my husband’s car along with a note reading, “This block of ice weighs 25 pounds and came from Bruce’s driveway. Love, Scott.”
My favorite part of the story is that he took the time to weigh a giant block of ice in his house. On a bathroom scale.
Anyway, I don’t know if you’re reading this Scott, but I have a fantastic idea. And it just may be coming to a mailbox near you.