de Vos: Think inside the box
March 3, 2016
Grand County living is pretty close to heaven, but like the Rapture, it ain't for everybody. It's cold, winters are long, and it's a considerable trek to opera. But all-in-all, we've got it pretty soft compared to those hardy souls who first settled here. A power outage today is a calamity but early settlers only had electricity when lightning fried the chickens in the coop.
One thing that binds folks in this high mountain valley is the post office. It's a social hour for otherwise would-be shut-ins. Occasionally, perhaps even daily, we head to the post office, nodding as we enter, thankful our picture's not taped to the window. Plus there's always good gossip about anybody who isn't in front of us in line.
Has the postal person ever scared you as you pull your mail out of the box? If that's never happened to you, thank your lucky stars.
Some twisted postal people think it's hysterical to hear you screech as they reach through the box and grab at you. Reeling at the sight of a disembodied hand waving in front of your face, you whirl and run smack into someone you probably know. This being an election year you're liable to spend a half-hour debating who'd be better, Donald Trump or Donald Duck and what, besides pants, would be the actual difference?
Actually, I mentioned Donald on purpose because I've been obsessing over the word, 'bloviate'. It's hard to work into a conversation, but it means to praise oneself at length with God-like adjectives. Donald's the poster child for the word. His distinctive brand blazing in gold leaf across the former White House will doubtless trigger mass emigration to Canada and Mexico – Americans, once more yearning to be free!
You probably noticed that he's doing something different with his hair. It looks especially nice when he bloviates. With a Trump presidency, it's entirely conceivable Mexico would build and pay for a wall, after all.
Having a post office box (the direction I'm trying to steer this column) presents its own set of challenges. Recently I was ordering parrot food over the phone, a process compounded by the feathered numbskulls screeching in the background. The ordering itself screeched to a halt when she said, "We don't ship to post office boxes, what's your street address?"
I told her and there was a lengthy pause. When she came back, she said, "We can't ship there." A hint of suspicion crept into her voice as she continued, "Actually, my computer says that's an incorrect address."
"But uh, no, wait, no, I've lived here for years; hold on just one more second . . . there, I double-checked the sign on my driveway and sure enough, that's where I live."
"Well," she said, "my computer says that's not a good address."
I took a calming breath, "Okay, maybe it's an older neighborhood and, yeah, a couple of the lots resemble salvage yards, but we think it's a great place to grow your kids."
"No, no," she said, "That's not what I meant. I meant that it's not in my computer."
"Do you have Google Earth?"
"I'll go outside and wave. I'm in a light blue shirt. You can send it right there."
Next week: New documents released by Snowden indicate Trump is actually a hologram controlled by Kim Jong-un trying to make America look not-so-great again!
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