Y'all, look at what Rena set up for the Boston Love Blanket(s)! A Facebook page with photos!
I have many skills, y'all. I am a rice whisperer–my rice (sushi rice, white, brown, jasmine, even cauliflower rice!) always turns out amazing. I can make grumpy people laugh. I can tell a joke well even if I've forgotten the punch line. I can sew a dress and knit a sweater without a pattern. I write books, from Once Upon a Time all the way through to The End.
But hey-zeus, I can't get to the post office.
I owe books from the last drawing. I swear, that must have been a month ago. The books are still on my porch, sending me evil glares every time I walk past them. If I owe you a book, I haven't forgotten you, nor did I ask for your home address just so I could come watch TV with you some random afternoon (although if you're watching Nashville, scoot over, I'm watching with you*).
I do not know what my hang-up is. It's true, I hate the post office. That's a given. My post office is one of the scariest places I've ever been. The line stretches around the block, there's only ever one employee who obviously bitterly hates all of humanity, and the bullet-proof glass is dented as if it's been tested more than once.
But I have a rental mailbox! You know, at one of those fancy Not A Post Office places! I have it expressly so I can get deliveries that are important (because my mailman comes up my walk with the slip that says Sorry You Weren't Home pre-filled out . . . when I am home). My mailbox store is a lovely place, staffed by a smiling man whose name I always forget and Jean, whose smile could split timber. I love going there!
So why can't I just get the books into the post? Why can't I take them to Jean? I have no idea. This blog entry is by way of apology, a huge blanket mea culpa, to everyone to whom I owe stuff. Please forgive me. I can't explain it. I'll get there someday, I promise.
(Oooh! I swear I didn't start this post with this idea, but I just had it, and I JUST FIGURED IT OUT. Write to me! Send me a letter! Oh, my gosh, I'd LOVE a letter! A real letter! From someone who is not selling me anything! Oooooh! I haven't received a proper letter in, like, years. I will TOTALLY go to the mailbox if I think something might be there. I'm freaking out right now with excitement. My mailing address: Rachael Herron, 3542 Fruitvale Ave #135, Oakland, CA 94602.)
*Because, oh, my. Nashville's Deacon Claiborne. I mean. Damn. He's totally the imaginary hero of the book I'm writing right now. Here's an inspiring screenshot for you. You're welcome.
ETA Snowgoddess's wonderful comment: Dear Ms. Herron, Thank you for you continued patronage of our fancy Not a Post Office place. We strive to continue to offer you new and fancier Not a Post Office place services. We would like to introduce you to our newest employee Deacon Claiborne, formerly of Nashville, (actually on hiatus) currently researching a part for his next film, Let Me Do That For You, a lustful romance comedy drama about a fancy Not a Post Office place employee who lusts for a stunning writer wrapped in handknits with seemingly endless amount of packages to be mailed. Oh, and he will supply the strapping tape. We hope to see you soon. Your nearest fancy Not a Post Office Place
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