Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Dear Walking Litterbox - Lysol is NOT a Deodorant
Today is not one of those days.
Whenever the mail carrier calls to tell us to go downstairs and get our mail, I know that it's best to wait at least 20 minutes to avoid a run-in with the Walking Litter Box. This strategy has served me well in the past.
But today, I must have been overdue for some kind of horrific, life altering punishment.
When I heard the shrill mail carrier's voice over the phone*, coupled with her condescending tone, I felt regret that my phone does not allow me to record conversations, especially since this mail carrier is probably a few sandwiches short of a picnic basket. Visually, she is a cross between Sally Struthers and Divine. Audibly, she is a cross between Fran Drescher and Edith Bunker.
(To get the best effect, read this while pinching your own nose.)
"Hello, this is the mail room. I have three things for you. One, I have certified mail for you to sign; two, I have a few odd pieces of mail for you to see - maybe they're yours? and three, you have two buckets of mail to pickup, okay?"
(*I have mastered the sound of her voice and can now mimic it flawlessly on command for a small fee)
Looking back, I must have been distracted, or maybe I had developed a fatal sense of confidence, because within 5 minutes, I was pressing the 'down' button on the elevator.
I walked into the mailroom and casually tossed my outgoing mail in the bin. I announced the name of my company aloud, as her wide back was turned to me.
(pinch your nose again)
"Oh, hiiiii," she sang, in that Edith Bunker tone of hers. "Oh-kay, why don't you look at this pile of mail while I get your certified mail ready."
I grabbed the small pile of "lost" mail and thumbed through it. Ooh, Esquire. Do I pretend this person works for us? Nah, I'll never read this.
I handed it back to her and she gave me the certified form to sign, just as a male voice began to speak behind me.
Without ever hearing the Walking Litter Box's voice before, I just knew, instinctively, that it was him. I signed the form fast, almost tearing a hole in the card stock. I handed it back to Edith/Sally/Jabba. But my departure was not to be a quick one, because Walking Litter Box had now started to talk to her.
I dared not turn around, but stood waiting for my certified mail. I now realized that I was trapped in the tiny 8x8 cell, between the hideous mail lady and the vile Walking Litter Box.
I tensed up and asked for my mail.
"Oh, it's right outside there," she said, meaning that I would have to bypass WLB. I did not say a word, for I was holding my breath.
WLB backed up enough for me to pass, but that was not enough, and we barely grazed. I was glad I wore an older pair of pants to work; throwing them out would not be so devastating.
I bent down, grabbed the two buckets of mail, yanked them close to me and bolted out of the loading dock.
The final indignity came when I said, "Oh my fucking GOD" under my breath. I forgot that even though I was physically distant from him, his fucking trail of Lysol/Kitty Litter was now in the air, and so pungent that I could now taste it.
You read right. As I write this, I can TASTE the funk of that fat son of a bitch.
Kill me now.
Labels: Walking Litterbox