The FedEx Man Incident
2004-12-09
4:31 p.m.

Maybe it's time for me to get back in the habit of chronicling the mundane details of my life. The mundane-ness of my life was so much more entertaining to me when it involved insane co-workers and weirdos on the T, and now it just involves the cats and is starting to come very close to "and then today the washing machine said, and then I said, and then the drier was like..."

Therefore, it is important that I either:

1) Start writing it down so we can keep track of the arc of crazy;
2) Leave the house and find real people;
3) Keep it to myself and pretend it's not happening.

I choose #1. Lucky reader!

When I started this entry, I wasn't sure whether or not I could commit, due to the fact that Chelsea was sleeping on my left arm, including my hand. And no matter what the temp agency may be telling everyone (and they've got to be spreading some sort of rumor, because I never, ever get assignments), I do use both hands (and multiple fingers!) when I type. So the choices were: disturb Chelsea or not type the entry. I decided Chelsea was already disturbed (you may remember her from such roles as I Pee on the Floor and I Hate Molly) so I'd risk it. And now, hands freed, I type.

Today the doorbell rang and I didn't answer it. I never, ever answer the door while home. This mostly has its origins in the fact that I'm frequently in my pajamas (why dirty actual clothing?) but also has slightly more sinister roots in the FedEx Man Incident.

The FedEx Man Incident happened only a couple of months ago and it still haunts me. My husband is taking a class through the U of A, except he does the entire thing via fax and streaming lecture video. He gets deliveries of class materials, via FedEx, at least twice a week. He is never home. I am always home. See previous mention of pajamas. See also, pregnancy, nausea. See also directly through our window next to the front door, straight through to the couch.

So, one day, the doorbell rings. I am lying on the couch, reading a book. I glance up and make eye contact with the FedEx guy. Do I answer the door? Or do I roll off the couch and onto the floor and ignore repeated rings, despite the fact that I'm less than six feet from the guy? Why, I do the second thing. Of course. It is a battle of wills, but there is nowhere I have to be, and so I win. If by win I mean appear to be completely insane.

Now this same man comes at least twice a week to drop off my husband's homework and exams and stuff. I avoid the living room like the plague, all day. When the doorbell rings, I freeze and stand still until I hear the van drive off, no matter how far into the depths of the house I am and his steely FedEx eyes can't see me.

(However I did once accidentally answer the door. My wee neighbor wandered over and I love this kid and saw him coming, so I answered the door. He and I were chatting about topics near and dear to the average five year old when the FedEx man drove up. He handed me an envelope and smirked. Ha. What? He imagined the whole thing.)

Anyway, so this brings me back to the package found on my front doorstep this afternoon. It's from Zaterain's. The jazzy gumbo company, or whatever. I do not know. I've never had the stuff. Anyway, it's an enormous box. It is filled with every product that they produce. There is no note. Perhaps I won it? I have no idea. But, dirty rice for everyone! I kind of rule at this contest thing and should get back into it while avoiding the living room.

Thank you and good night.