So many choices. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
The timing of what happened yesterday vis-à-vis my blog post, “Death of a Salesman,” is eerie . . . Hitchcockian, if you will. Fodder for a Stephen King book. The Hallmark Movie Channel called me for the rights to the story.
My mail was delivered to the wrong house yesterday. Gasp, shock, horror!
It wasn’t just one slim envelope mixed in with someone else’s mail. It was the whole kit and caboodle of magazines, junk, and a bill or two.
Do you suppose my mailman read my blog post? Did he take umbrage with my observations and decide to hijack my mail?
But here is where the story gets more eerie.
(Cue creepy music . . . dum dum dummmmm.)
I never met the person who received my mail. She lives less than a mile from me by car. As the crow flies, her house is a hop, skip, and a jump away. (I love the opportunity to use two idioms in one sentence.)
The kind soul who was subjected to my junk mail sent me an email that said:
Dear Robin:
The post office mistakenly delivered to me a big chunk of your mail. Coincidently, I had viewed your great Blog before, so I went to your blog and got your email address.
Since I live so close, I was just going to come by your house and drop off your mail in your front porch after picking a couple of my kids up from school around 3. Hope that is OK.
The only thing NOT eerie about this story is she called my blog “great.” She is one smart cookie.
But here is something else strange. Very few people in my real life know I have a blog. Of those who do know about it, very few read it. (I could use some therapy about that.) How did she know about my blog?
So what are the odds?
Robin writes a post about the postal service.
Robin’s mail is delivered to the wrong address the next day.
Robin’s neighbor reads Robin’s blog.
Robin’s neighbor leaves Robin’s mail on Robin’s front porch with a note saying that she too is an aspiring writer and would love to get together to talk about writing.
(Why am I talking in the third person?)
Sure, I tag every post with “writer” and “writing,” but out of the six katrillion writer/writing blogs out there, my neighbor knows about my blog? And then gets my mail by mistake?
Again, what are the odds?
Three questions for you:
Does my mailman have a vast postal-wing conspiracy against me?
Have I buffaloed my neighbor into thinking I am a writer?
When a tree falls in the forest to feed the junk mail mill and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?
Thank you new friend and fellow writer for re-delivering my mail. Thank you Mr. Mailman for correctly delivering my mail to me in the future. I won’t blog about you again, I promise.
Related articles
- Death of a Mailman (robincoyle.wordpress.com)
Robin Coyle 