No, Sticking Your Hand in a Mail Box Does Not Make You Gay
A stunning revelation last night as Sheena mutated from cozy back seat limo sleepy mode into seething rage within 10 minutes of walking into the house.
A story of mixup, confusion, borrowed cars, invalid insurance and questionable plates. Perhaps a simple misunderstanding, a random bureaucratic error instigated by a slack ass functionnaire somewhere in the bowels of a regional sorting centre. Perhaps something more deceitful and cowering. Figure that part out later this week.
But it triggered an interesting conversation with The Urban Artist in Residence about Sheena's relationship patterns.
I came to the stunning conclusion that every major breakup has been triggered by the man's failure to open his mail. Yep. Every camel-toe-breaking-straw has been an unopened letter. From the bank, the City, the Dept of Motor Vehicles, the Lawyer.
I think back to the stacks and stacks of unopened mail, on different dressers, in different rooms, in different provinces. But it all ends the same.
A man who does not open his mail is afraid of something. Is hiding from something. Is in denial and is pretending something will just go away if ignored long enough. Is blocked from action. So usually Sheena has to act. And by act I mean walk.
posted by Sheena @ 1:22 PM
6 comments
6 Comments:
My ex never opened his because he expected me to handle everything.
And I do mean everything.
Crap. I have piles of unopened mail. No denial. No fear. Just busy. Yes, I'd prefer that the spouse handle it. I have a career and a sideline business, she's been on mat leave for 14 years.
But, tell you what. If you and I ever get married and you promise to support me in the manner to which I've become accustomed, I promise to handle it all in a timely manner....
hmmm, I wonder if anybody I know doesn't open their mail. I open mine, but only because I know I have to pay the bill or whatever.
The only stuff I don't open is stuff that I already know what is in there.
Like the Xmas card I got from Jack Layton.
I really don't care, Jack.
Fender opens his mail promptly, never know when one of those mysteriously missing royalty cheques will turn up
The mailbox has been an obsession since starting the home based business. Every day could bring that $10k cheque owed to me by Chum Television for 6 months and counting, or the the $3.5 K owed to me by the last client that needed everything yesterday, and good ol' Letherhands jumped through a million hoops, drove halfway across the GTA and got up at 5 AM to make sure he got his precious stuff in time for some half-baked event...and got a "thank you thank you, you've really come through for me and I don't know what we would have done without you."
And every day for the next two months, I only get invoices from suppliers, credit card bills, etc, but no sign of any payment from the cock-mouthed, fuck-faced, dick-headed lice-mouthed client. Nope fucking sir.
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