postmarked for delivery
In an effort to reduce the height of the mail tower that accumulates, as if by magic to the left of my front door, I decided to dedicate Friday between 12 and 2 am to sorting & shredding. Of course it’s still dark - but the illuminated oversized “M” hanging proudly above my bed - helps to lend a bit of party to an otherwise somber pre-dawn chore.
I am wielding an actual gold knife, part of an 8-piece Versace cutlery set gifted by my BFF, Simone Butterfly, Christmas 2015.
The knife, too beautiful for eating carryout makes the perfect gilded letter opener. The first envelope that is slashed bears a return address from Lori. Apparently she will buy Brookland homes for cash. “If had a nickel for every phantom homebuyer, I would not need to refinance,” I say a little too cynically to Paris Hilton Marie who is busy preening in front of the mirrored lingerie cabinet.
After about 20 minutes of ploughing through the pile, I begin to feel exasperated. My breakfast tea was cold and the trademark CLE that I was streaming had ended.
I grabbed the last stack of mail intending to toss it into a box labeled “Someday is not a day of the week;" when to my amazement, the pile leaped out of my hand, scattering just beyond the foot of my bed.
It’s 1 am now and the tea has been replaced with coconut vodka. That is when I saw it- a jubilant photo postcard of a magical stallion draped in daisies who refused to be bridled. I picked up the note and immediately laugh out loud.
Yoo Hoo Darling!
What ever you are doing right now…. S-T-O-P! I am sending you a plane ticket to Napa. Par Quoi? Because I’m celebrating what is left of summer and you need to sleep. Don't worry I won't mail the tickets. We both know that you will never find it in that tower of mail near your front door.
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