So I’m sitting at my computer, checking my email, and I hear a vehicle pull up in front of my house and a woman’s voice talking animatedly. From what I could make out, it was a lot of “that motherfucker…I told that motherfucker…you wouldn’t believe what that motherfucker…and then that motherfucker…” on and on. I go to the window, thinking to tell this idiot to keep moving. But I can’t. You know why? It was my POSTAL CARRIER. That’s right. My mailwoman. And she’s sitting in her mail truck, in front of my house, talking into her earpiece with her “motherfucker” this and her “motherfucker” that.
I wish it had occurred to me to pull out my video camera, although I’m not sure it would have been able to pick up her voice. Instead, I pulled out my phone and called the post office and made a complaint. I mean, honestly. Fine. You want to bitch someone out over the phone? Go ahead. Do it at the table next to me in a restaurant. Do it while walking through the aisles of the grocery store. But do not, I repeat. DO NOT do it while you are DELIVERING MY FUCKING MAIL.
She’s relatively new to delivering mail to my house, and for the past several weeks I have been alerted to her presence on my front porch by her voice, because she is constantly talking on the telephone. And while it annoyed me, I figured, hey, if I had to walk around all day delivering mail, I’d probably talk on the phone too. Or listen to an iPod. Or something. But I would 1. be quiet about it and 2. Not curse a fucking blue streak while walking past people’s homes.
So what happens after I make the call to the post office? Yeah. You guessed it. A supervisor came out likety split and chastised her. I’m pretty sure Miss Motherfucker could probably guess it was me who called, as she parked directly in front of my house and had only made it two houses in to the block. I can’t wait to see the condition of my mail when it arrives in my box in a few minutes.
But you can bet I’ll be standing right by the window listening for her!
There’s nothing I could write that hasn’t already been written about people who talk loudly and publicly into their cell phones. I’ve talked about it a few times before, and a million other people have talked about it as well. It’s old, but it’s not going away. Especially with these handy bluetooth ear piece things.
The problem stems from a complete lack of awareness of one’s surroundings. It’s like people walk around in a little bubble, blissfully unaware of any other human being in the vicinity. And magnified, it just points to a major problem in our society. People don’t give two shits about each other. There’s very little common courtesy around these days. People shove their way around, so focused on their own petty little interests. Argh.
Wow what a fuckin snitch. Seriously Viki. So she yells on her cell phone and has a light case of Tourettes…it’s not the end of the world.
No, it certainly is not the end of the world, Son. But it is an irritant in MY world. I live in a nice, quiet neighborhood. And I’d like to keep it that way.
When interviewed (by me), my son, who was sitting in the other room when she pulled up with her bitching, told me he heard it and thought that some woman was yelling at some kids on the street, and after going to the window, he didn’t understand what was going on, because he didn’t get that she was talking on a phone, as she was using an earpiece. So, he thought that our mail woman was a complete LUNATIC.
Think of the children, Son. The children. My son is now scarred for life, having had to be subjected to the cursings of an irate, inconsiderate mail person. The poor boy has never heard a curse word in his sweet and sheltered life, let alone “motherfucker” this and “motherfucker” that.
Ah, who am I kidding?
I’m just a bitch, okay? And when some idiot pulls up in front of my house, cursing into her phone so loud I can hear her from 50 feet away, inside my house, or when some moron kids decide to smoke pot on my fucking driveway, I’m going to open my mouth. Just keep your crap off of my little corner of the world, okay? Damnit.
Viki, I WISH you’d learn to quit holding back and say what you’r really thinking and feeling. No, it’s all right… Let it out! You’ll feel better.
I keep picturing the scene if you had gone out and confronted the mail woman in person. Oh, the screaming and cursing the neighborhood would have heard THEN!
(From her, of course. Not from you! Never.)
John
I was thisclose to going out there and asking her, politely, to keep her potty mouth off my street. And perhaps I should have. If she had been just some random person walking by, I might’ve. But she was not some random person. She is the woman who delivers my mail every day. And I really didn’t think it wise to get into it with her.
I AM the bitch on the corner, I’ll freely admit to that. You and your crew of non-english-speaking Mexican immigrant workers start mowing the lawn across the street before 7 a.m.? I’m calling the police, and then I’m going to go out there and tell you to turn your fucking mowers and your blowers off until the 8 a.m. legal start time. You ride your bike over my grass because you’re too lazy to go ALL THE WAY around the corner? You’re going to feel my arm across your neck, and it’s going to hurt when you hit the ground, and you’re going to be really scared to open your eyes and see my lovely mug. You run a power saw at 9 p.m.? Oh, you’ll hear it from me. I AM THE BITCH ON THE CORNER.
I’m lucky I’ve never been egged. It’s probably because I am always right.
Look, bitch. I don’t know who you think you’re messing with! I control all your credit card and bank statements!
Here’s the thing. Bitch. You go ahead and mess with my mail. That would be a FEDERAL OFFENSE, my friend. And if you think for one moment that I’m not going to be stationed in some invisible-to-you spot with my video camera in hand, watching you, every moment, waiting to catch you at that moment when you shove my New Yorker magazine into some crevice in your fucking mail van, you are sadly mistaken. Mess with my mail, bitch. Go ahead. I’ll call the fucking postmaster on your ass so fast you won’t know what hit you. Next thing you know? You’ll be talking into a PAYPHONE at the PRISON where you’ll be serving 7-10 for messing with my FUCKING MAIL. Bitch.
OH. MY. GOD. I just about died laughing, right after I got all scared that the motherfucking mailwoman found my blog. I did, I must admit, for one second, believe that it was possible that she found me. Thanks for the laugh, OH Queen.
great rant
Welcome, Sugar! I thought you could use laugh.
Oooooo, Viki reads New Yorker, oooooo!!!
Speaking of mailwomen, Viki, is there anyway to get them to use the sidewalks and walkways up to the front doors, instead of walking through my nicely trimmed lawn which I just got done cutting and watering and staring at for a half an hour? She’s starting to wear a path and it’s pissing me off. I’m thinking about slipping her a $20 with “don’t walk on my fucking grass, it’s called a sideWALK for a reason” written on Mr. Jackson’s forehead.
“VikiBabbles?” Well, very occasionally of late. More like an infrequent one-liner.
I miss the babbler I used to find here. Hope things are OK.