Tuesday, February 21, 2006

Mailroom day is a dangerous day

Getting mail at college is a dicey situation sometimes. Usually, I would prefer to not get anything, just out of inconvenience. The mail room is downstairs and I'm lazy. Also, if I get a package, they're usually closed and I can't retrieve said package until the next day. The wait for letters and packages also is rather delayed, including when I received an invitation to a basketball game 5 days after the game was played (we lost to Maine).

My friend's Mom has been good enough to send me a care package every so often which is a giant boost in morale. Her package always contains: Chewy Chips Ahoy, a Reese's product (be it cups or miniatures), and watermelon Bubblicious gum. It has been a tradition since freshman year (which sounds longer than it really is) and I enjoy it greatly.

Last year, for some reason, my mailbox would receive free Stuff, FHM and Maxim magazines, all addressed to a guy who lived there two years prior to me. In fact, a kid on my floor who I'm friends with lived in my room and goes "oh man, you still get the Maxims!?"

And that's about the only good mail I get.

My mom will send me letters for various holidays with money inside which I like and appreciate. She will also send me the ocassional package which happens to be a direct rip-off of the Mrs. Meyer staple package. In fact, this Valentine's Day, I got a package from my mom and Mrs. Meyer containing almost the exact same products. I cried shenanigans. There was one giant difference, however.

My mom sent up a package of condoms. This is odd for a few reasons. Obviously, I got condoms from my own mother, and that's weird on its own. I don't need them since I have a girlfriend back home, but I guess they're in preperation for Haley's visit in April? My mom also decided that she should check to make sure that she gets the right condoms. She went into my dresser draw, pulled a condom out, and went to the store to match it perfectly. It's that sort of hands-on quality that you want when receiving prophylactics from the person who thankfully didn't insist on using one, thereby creating you. Then that person gives you the technology and capability to not have a child. It's like the circle of life from the Lion King, just without the antelope. And with more condoms.

My two grandmas also give me interesting mail. My grandma on my mom's side once sent me the wrong card for the wrong holiday--Happy St. Patrick's Day! for my birthday--and it has now become a gimmick. It has been going on for a few years, including one patch where she decided to give me the correct cards for the correct holidays in an obvious attempt to not look senile (she isn't anyway). I yelled at her, expecting the usual, "Oh Grandma, you silly goose!" reaction each time I open an envelope from her address. For Valentine's Day, I received this:

It was originally a birthday card from my cousin Eddie to my grandma. But, with a little legal pad paper and scotch tape, it's a heartfelt Happy Valentine's Day card. The sad part is, I actually really enjoy this. Does that make me weird, or just appreciative of creativity? Or just an asshole who won't accept an old lady's simple card and makes her jump through hoops for my appeasement?

My other grandma is just simply a piece of work. She is a very loving, very caring woman who just doesn't get it sometimes. For example, each Christmas she would buy us a grab bag full of shirts that never fit (my dad got XL when he was XXL, I'd get child large) and flashlights that didn't work, etc. etc. etc. One time she went to Wildwood and got me 18 keychains for "me and my friends." She bought us a very strange statue lookin' chachi of a small dog superglued to a bed. Not only did it make my dog bark for 18 hours a day, but my dad tripped over it getting ready for work and screamed thinking it was a raccoon loose in the house. Needless to say, she's kind of eccentric.

She sent me a lot of letters last year, all of which were Saran-wrapped for my protection (with money, which she wrote on for good luck, inside). These weren't a problem to carry--or hide--as my mailbox was about 3 buildings away in an adjacent dorm about a thousand feet away. In the spring, though, there was a problem. On a nice day in April I see that I have a package slip in my mailbox. I go to the desk and out comes a GIGANTIC fruit basket. It's about 3 feet tall, wrapped with a very pink bow, and impossible to hide. I had the joy of walking with said basket through the busiest time at the second largest dorm complex on campus. Thankfully, the grapes were quite good.

The best was yet to come. A few weeks ago, I recieved a large, manilla envelope from her. Contained inside was a swimsuit calender she got free from some local business. Once again, there are a few queer things here. First, why the hell did my Grandma send me a swimsuit calender?! Secondly, why did she send me one full of trashy Jersey shore girls? Well, I guess it's better that they aren't attractive, because this way I don't have her analyzing the pictures for quality control (a quality control like buying condoms, for example).

I called my Grandma up to thank her for the gift and we had a nice conversation about it, but it also contained words that will haunt me forever. I asked her why she felt it necessary to send me such a callender, being my grandmother and all. She replied with, "well, ya know, I just sent it as a boner."

I will repeat.

I asked her why she sent it, and she said, "well, ya know, I just sent it as a boner." I pulled my phone away from my face and screamed. Just screamed until I could think of a better, more adult reaction to that line. It took a while to think of one. I then picked the phone up again and asked her to never use that terminology with me again. Never. She doesn't understand what's going on. I call up my mom directly after I hang up with my grandma and relay the story to her. My mom can't fathom her using the word boner and tries to use substitute words, like "loner" or "donor." I emphatically say that I know I heard the word "boner," as it just sorta sticks out sometimes. Then, I'm told that maybe I just thought I heard it, as if I fucking think of boners when talking to my grandma. I don't know what is worse: having your grandma use the word or have your mother make the accusation that you think of said word while talking to your grandma.

Postscript: My mom calls up my grandma and asked if she did indeed use the word "boner." Grandma proudly says yes, and says that she "keeps up with what the kids were saying." When asked what the word meant, she replied with "a joke, having a laugh." Mom then asked her to sit down, told her the real meaning, and got a stunned "oh" as a response. A few hours after hanging up, my grandma left a message asking for my mom to call her back so that they can go over all of the hip phrases that my grandma knows to make sure she knows the true meanings.

Just a little thing to end at the end here....

I just want to give my best to a few people who have gone through some personal losses over the last week. I am sorry for all of your losses and hope for nothing but the best for you and your's. If I prayed, I would do so. Instead, I'll throw in a "stay strong" at the end of my blog. Wordiness is next to godliness. Keep your heads up, as things will be easier in time.

1 comment:

partha said...