Mailbox Madness

By Sylvia Bright-Green

When my recently retired husband began retrieving the mail, a deed I've performed for thirty five years, I nicely explained, "Honey, I'd rather get the mail myself. We writers like to have the mailman make our day."
          
I purposely didn't tell him that writers' daily identities are determined by what acceptances or what rejections we receive in our mailboxes.
          
Needless to say, when the next mail delivery came, once again my husband strolled into the house with mail in hand.
         
Feeling justified, I cried, screamed, and threatened divorce if he didn't allow me to get my own mail. But it was all to no avail. It didn't matter to him that our jade anniversary was becoming C.O.D. (canceled over delivery).
          
Each time he plagiarized my mail routine, I couldn't forgive him his infringement. And I resented his opening my mail and saying, "It's another mimeographed slip telling you to forget it." Or, "Hon, we received a check for $300."
          
During those episodes, my fingers would curl into a neck-choking position (crimping my writing style), where eventually my creativity became totally blocked.
          
Desperate, I telephoned the rural mailman and asked if he could meet me for lunch every day (at my expense, of course) so I could get my mail firsthand. He rejected my idea.
          
Incensed, I had a mailbox made with openings at both ends-- front and back. At 10:30 every morning I'd put on my sweatsuit, and yell to my husband, "Dear, I'm going jogging."

Then I would hurry out the door and proceed to hide in the bushes behind the mailbox... awaiting the mailman. After the mailman placed the mail in the box, I would reach through the bushes, open the back door of the box and retrieve my mail. My revenge was rewarded when I saw how confused my husband was, knowing the mailman had just delivered the mail, yet my husband couldn't find it.
          
Upon mentioning this to me, I replied, "Dear, it's probably your blood pressure pills playing tricks with your mind."

For a whole week my life was once again beautiful, until my grandchild discovered me in the bushes. Thinking I was playing hide-and-seek, she ran squealing, "Grandpa, Grandpa, I found Grandma. She's in the bushes by the mailbox."
          
Back in the same dilemma where my husband insisted on getting the mail, depression set in, isolating me. During this time, I allowed everything to pile up all over the house. My husband, in his attempts to jar me out of my depression, chided, "Do you need every room in this house for what you do?"
          
I sarcastically replied, "You have the bathroom, don't you?"

He countered with, "Yeah, well at least I'm doing something everyday besides listening to Dion sing 'Limparound Sue.'"
          
I barked at him, "Oh, go out on the beach and wait for a young chick to stroll by and suck in your breath until you turn blue."
          

After that, he left me alone with my misery. For days I staggered through the house in my wrinkled pajamas eating my life away. Never again would I "feed from the call of the moose," unless it was cooked and served on a plate.

Then one day while I was aimlessly wandering around the house, I noticed my husband was also roving about like a bewildered being. I thought, he has too many unfilled hours due to not having a hobby.
          
Realizing this, I gave him a hug and a kiss, saying, "Honey, since you're retired, why don't we switch roles?"
          
He thought about it for a moment, and then somewhat hesitantly agreed. Now he not only gathers the mail, but he does the laundry, cooks, and irons.
          

And I, well, I'm supporting him in the style to which he's accustomed... underwear and slippers.  This agreement, however, only lasted for a week, and he started complaining, "I hate ironing. What I don't understand is why I have to iron your bras when you don't have anything to put in them?"
          
I retorted, "Well, I ironed your shorts, too, didn't I?"
          
Later that day we both kissed and made up, agreeing not to "word duel" with each other. So far it's working. But then it's only been one hour, fifteen minutes, and twelve seconds.
          

Oh, no, here he comes with the mail in his hand, and he looks wild-eyed.

Sylvia Bright-Green has been writing for twenty-six years and has published more than 800 articles, columns, and short stories in local and national publications. She has been published in two Adams Media books, a Famous Wisconsin Mystics book, co-authored a state historical book, hosted a talk show, and taught at conferences and colleges in her home state of Wisconsin.

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