Wednesday, May 23, 2012
I'm dismantling the elaborately disorganized pile of mail that I swear, some old, wizened Japanese guy erected into his own home. I feel badly, (for a nanosecond) evicting him this way, but I need the room.
Hopefully, not for more mail. The stuff arrives daily. In copious amounts. Or small amounts. I could count on one hand the number of times I've opened that damn box to find it empty. Sure, I too enjoy finding a pastel envelope inside, holding a time honored nod at traditional communication....witty, charming, sweet, sappy, not even addressed to me....even better? Find the box empty.
I find this:
(when I find a photo, it will go here)
Chaaarrrmmming, I know.
Hubs and I both are List N' Pile Makers. Great minds think alike! Naturally, I draw the line at utilizing the excel application while planning out the packing up for vacation. Ahem. Hubs.....uses it. I've hauled together an alarming amount of packing in a very short period of time: I grew up watching my mother pack at the very last second. I've added to this concept: since I (clearly) won't have any clue what I want to pack, (and wear) while gone, I need ALL of my clothing washed. It does, I admit, make the Last Minute Packer Packing a good pinch easier. Add to the ease? Most of my wardrobe involves either nine hundred shades of matching pink and blue, or, acres of white. Everything, or nearly, goes with everything else. See? A. Breeze.
The kids, currently all fighting for Style Independence requires little of me other than open respective drawers, grab one handful of each necessary item, add a suit, toothbrush, and four deodorants per child. The baby retains the most allotted personal time for packing. I hide a great many sins (bad hair moments, droppy breasts in a droopier bra I thought I got rid of but am now wearing, bottoms I didn't zip all the way - whether they zip all the way not really the point) behind my beautiful child.
Enter the mail.
Divide into His, Hers, and my favorite, My Ex's and His Whole Families Mail. Then, the subcategories play havoc, mail attaching itself to a manmade merry go round of table top, chair seat, table top, dining credenza, table. The piles get mixed. The Everyone Else's Mail at some point makes it into the I'll Write My List Here Pile, as lists do hold up well on the back of expensive mailing envelopes companies (AARP, solicitations for auto dealerships, carpet cleaning) hope make it into the Opened Pile of mail. The Must Have Coupons, Bed Bath and Beyond leading the list, as they'll take any and all coupons, regardless of date!! the papery $5 off one item ones sometimes utilized as slobbery chewing fodder for the teething infant in high chair awaiting anything else of interest.
Yeah, I saved that coupon too. When it dried, the bar code was still totally readable.
At this point, more mail inevitably arrives, thrusting itself rudely into the merry-go-round, scooching the napkin holder, salt shaker and butter dish further up toward the other part of the table. The Eating Around It Part. The side we both attempt to keep relatively clear.
Relative being the key word. Those flyers, ones printed on heavy heavy cardstock, just shy a full page? Awesome place mats. Eat. Watch kids drop food everywhere. Throw out "mats"...patting myself on the back all the way to the trash: two birds, one stone.
Unfortunately, a good deal of all this stuff that's sent, is, well, Real Mail. The I Need To Open It kind. Bills. (pay online, have the satisfaction of ripping that sucker in half with great panache, an eyebrow raised at Hub's growing pile, while yours, obviously, shrinks) More bills. Tax stuff. That thing they send for free tomato plants.
Under the heading of mail, also resides, School Mail. By far, the worst offender. Full sheets sent home, sometimes in triplicate for the kids, all piling up in those respective piles, riding the merry-go-round, usually reminding me in the middle of the produce aisle to stop by and buy a ton of Scholastic Books.
Seeing as this paper we recycle (I so do what I can to help the planet) it has crossed my mind, many a day, how many trees die just to tell me a new dentist moved to town. With our pile towering over the entree, using the baby's highchair tray as a back up serving station for sides, I'd love love love to stick it to these companies.
Right up in the right hand corner.
Here's a stamp: mail this to someone who cares.