You’ve Got Mail

I had one stop to make on the way home, which was dropping off a book at my friend Melita’s house.

What happened next was not entirely my fault.

GPS didn’t tell me where her house was until I had passed it.

You had ONE job to do, GPS!

I put my car in reverse.

Boy, did I regret that.

But I can’t turn back time.

I’m not Cher.

I raced backwards, passing One House, Two House…

(Red house, Blue house)

and there was her house.

I should have stopped.

But I didn’t want to block her driveway.

It’s called manners, people.

I decided to reverse a little further.

VROOM!

Just a smidge more, and…

THUD!

Uh, oh.

This didn’t sound like my normal “Car Meets Curb.”

That sound is soft and bumpy.

This was loud and crunchy.

Now before you say, “What did this crazy lady hit…this time?”

Let me assure you it was an inanimate object.

It was a mailbox.

Was is the operative word here.

The entire metal mailbox had been severed at the base of its pole.

The mangled box and pole lay helplessly on the ground.

A stump was all that remained.

I’m not going to lie.

It was shocking.

Like a mafia hitman with a vendetta against the postal service.

I stood there eying the carnage.

Do I flee the scene?

Do I send a card?

(Where would the mailman put the card?)

Do I place the decapitated box in their bed?

(Silly me, that’s a horse head.)

Clearly, I wasn’t adequately prepared on how to handle vehicular MAILSLAUGHTER.

I knocked on the door.

“So, I’ve got some good news and bad news,” I told Alessandra and David, the daughter and son-in-law of my friend, Melita.

“Here’s the book she wanted, in perfect condition,” I said. “Speaking of things not in perfect condition…”

That’s when I took them to the bloodbath.

I expected them to gasp in horror, but instead they just smiled.

“It’s no big deal,” Alessandra said.

“Seriously, it’s not that bad,” David added.

Were we looking at the same crime scene?

“EVERYONE has run into that mailbox,” Alessandra said. 

David nodded. “It’s because the mailbox is so short.”

Yes, blame the mailbox. I like that.

“Maybe I could take it home and fix it?” I offered.

(Says the woman who can’t sew on a button. )

“Don’t worry,” David reassured me. “I’ll take care of it,”

Then he picked up the postal remains and headed for the house.

Alessandra and I stood there chatting next to the sad stump.

But all I kept thinking about was the postal worker who would be delivering the mail tomorrow.

Although, he knew the risk. 

He took the oath…

“Neither rain, nor snow, nor stump…”

Fortunately, I didn’t have to worry.

David had the mailbox fixed the very next day.

Forgiving and handy!

Which is ideally the type of family you want when running over their mailbox.

As for my car…

There may be some mailbox accents embedded in the bumper.

But if anybody (Steve) asks…

It was the mailboxes’ fault.