The Mailwoman Doesn't Know She Escaped A Rumble

Last week, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was ready to rumble! Ready to draw a line in the sand on the blacktop where the road peen took several months to fade away in the gravel where the road to her Mansion meets the county road down by EmBee's mailbox condo. The purpose of that line being a confrontation with the mail lady.

I suppose it's still a mail lady. The last two times I've come up behind the SUV with the US MAIL magnet on the back, there has been a woman driving it. I don't know if we've had anything missing in a while, because...well...if it's not there, you don't miss it. As far as I know, all of my bills have been paid. But I never received my ID number (that I had to wait 10-15 calendar days for) to get access to my tax return transcript online. Right now, it's been about 52 days. I'm pretty sure I'm never going to see that ID number. In fact, I ordered the tax transcript itself by mail, and it arrived in 14 days.

Anyhoo...things were going okay except for the tax thingy. But then, during the week that Farmer H was in Sweden, of course, EmBee sustained a debilitating injury. The big cylindrical magnet that held her trap shut was dislodged. Severed, actually. I knew that, because EmBee's door was all stove in, and the magnet was laying inside under the mail. Not shoved all the way to the back like it was an accident, mind you, and got shoved there. But laying under the mail. As if it had been put there to make a statement. "Oh, yeah. Here's your big magnet. I don't appreciate trying to stuff mail around it every day." That's what I imagine the statement to be.

With Farmer H in Sweden, chances of EmBee's latching system being repaired were about as good as the chances of a piece of gas station chicken staying out of Mrs. HM's gullet. I left the magnet inside, but shoved to the back, so it would be there when Farmer H returned. Actually, that first day, I stuck it back up by the latch where it belonged. So I was kind of on the roof of EmBee's mouth. But the next day it was under the mail again, so I jammed it way back for safekeeping. SAFEkeeping.

I told Farmer H on our way home from the lottery cashing office and casino on Monday. He said he'd get it fixed, but since he returned back to work on Tuesday, I figured it might take until the next weekend.

This is what I found on Thursday.

There was the magnet, perched on top of EmBee's head like a tiny hat on Damon Wayans as his Men on Film character on In Living Color! Like the jaunty top hat on the Singing Dancing Frog! Right there in the open, for any ne'er-do-well driving by to snatch and abscond with! I haven't been this mad since the time the mailman delivered a package from Amazon (containing two tubes of acne gel) and left it on top of the mailbox condo (HE SAID) and it was gone two hours later when I stopped by on my way home from school to get the mail.

I was incensed! What gave that mailwoman the right to tamper with the (broken) parts of our mailbox? She needed in the very least a stern talking-to. Since Mrs. HM is one to avoid confrontation, the line in the gravel was only an imagined scenario. But you can bet I tattled to Farmer H about it.

"And I found that magnet ON TOP OF THE MAILBOX! I don't know why that mailwoman thinks she can do whatever she wants with it. It's going to disappear, and then the door won't stay shut, and the mailbox will fill up with water then it rains."  I figured in the very least, Farmer H might just complain to the dead mouse smelling post office about it on one of his two extra days off now.

"Oh. I think I put the magnet up there, to remind myself to fix it."

Nevermind.