The True Life Adventures Of The Pleasant Lady
Lambs, several of you know what I do for a living. I skulk about on people's front porches, going through their things. Sent by the government, I go where I will, leaving behind documents of the most personal nature. I know your name. I know your dog's name.
Yes, I am the mail lady.
So, imagine this scene from last Saturday: I am walking along the street in my blue postal pants with the darker blue piping up the side, black walking shoes, a blue postal sweater, a blue postal vest with reflective red and white stripes on it as well as the postal logo on the chest, and to top it all off, a postal chapeau, also complete with postal logo. I am walking toward that large white truck with the blue and red stripe and the postal web address printed on the side. To get to it, I have to walk right past a conspicuous blue postal collection box. A lady in an SUV watches me as I get closer. She speaks. I cannot hear. I get closer. She speaks again.
"Are you the mail lady?" she asks.
Why no. I'm a fucking astronaut. NASA just asked me to drop off a few letters while re-entering the Earth's atmosphere before landing on your street. Have a moon rock.
"Yes, ma'am" I say. Because I am the Pleasant Lady. Have a wonderful day. And do something about your hair, it's hideous. Bye now.
Send your questions on a postcard to The Pleasant Lady. The Pleasant Lady regrets that she cannot answer every inquiry personally. No, the Pleasant Lady does not know your sister's boy John who works for Fed-Ex in Arizona. Yes, it is hot enough/cold enough for the Pleasant Lady today. The Pleasant Lady regrets that she does not know where your letter from Aunt Minnie is. The Pleasant Lady realizes that Your Old Carrier was better than the Pleasant Lady and that you wish you had them back. The Pleasant Lady invites you to call the post office and tell them the Pleasant Lady hasn't done anything but sit there eating her lunch for the past twenty minutes. Now she's reading a book. No, the Pleasant Lady cannot check to see if she forgot your magazine somewhere in her truck. No, the Pleasant Lady is not trying to "set some sort of record" for being late. See you tomorrow. See you next week. Unless I'm on vacation again.
The Pleasant Lady