My Cup Runneth Under

About a week ago, I bought this giant mailbox. Even though it’s 250 feet from my front door, it’s so obnoxiously huge that even from my back deck (which is even farther away), it still looks like it belongs in a scene from “Honey, I Shrunk the Kids.” I’m hoping that the neighbors will chalk its grotesque proportions up to the price they have to pay for not having to associate with me, but I did it for a reason: I was committed. (No not in the asylum sense, but if there is any government money to be had for same, I think I have all of the qualifications; and since I’ve never received a dime on the dole, maybe it’s about time that I did!) Jack, who installed it for me, said it would be a great place for sleeping if necessary. Anyway, I was committed to this fulltime part-time gig I got doing marketing for some really wonderful people (and I mean that). Part of the job was writing letters and the other part sending those letters in rather large marketing packages that wouldn’t fit in a standard mailbox. You got the drift?

I’ve been working my butt off for the past six months training on this job while working freelance, and driving into the city several times a week, thankful to have a steady gig that pays well. I even called and said, “Hey, I hope you guys like what I’m doing, because I just ticked off the whole neighborhood by buying a truly oversized mailbox!”

Meanwhile, a really well-paying freelance job disappeared. After hiring me and allowing me count-your-eggs-before-they-hatch daydreams of handing my son some money for school and expenses, the hiree decided to write the copy herself. Dreadfully disappointed, I consoled myself that now I could put more time in on the other job which also included bonuses. It was the answer to my money-varies-drastically-from-month-to-month-and-hence-payment-of-my-bills dilemma.

So the waterline broke again on our property ($$$), and my windshield was cracked from stem to stern by a flying something or other on the expressway going into Atlanta—probably merely a glancing bullet ($$$); squirrels continued their yearly drive to share our habitat ($$$), and so on.

But then my lab Max—Mackey Doodle All the Day—the best, most contrary, most beautiful, old yella fella in the world started acting odd on Monday. We had to have him put down by Tuesday. I have cried an ocean without relief, and I simply can’t write about it beyond this announcement. Not for now. Getting out of bed without seeing this companion/my heart who was glued to my side from morning to night for fifteen years was almost more than I could bear. Despite ice packs from non-stop sobbing, my eyes were swollen, and I looked like hell, (oh well, maybe that last part isn’t much of a change), I dutifully got in that Jeep and drove into the inner city. My boss stopped a meeting midway to express his sorrow for the loss of Max. I got hugs all-round despite my warnings that such attention would incite possibly unstoppable waterworks.

I kept a variably stiff upper lip all day and then got the news. I’m doing a great job; my efforts have resulted in new business, but times are hard. I’m laid off until further notice.

Does anyone want to pay me to hang out as a reliable jinx for someone they truly hate, because I’m available. Then, as the ultimate insult, when I got home, I had to pull up to that giant friggin’ mailbox and go spelunking to retrieve my bills! Actually, I think that adds a whole new “dimension” to post-office humor, tragic as such humor may be. One of the junk mail envelopes read, “Ever had one of those days?”

Wow, I’m worried. It’s only Wednesday and Jack’s out of town. If bad things happen in three’s, I may be going for doubles.

But honestly, the thing that hurts the worst is that no crazy, hyper, tail-thumping, old lion of a dog is here to greet and comfort me. Forgive me for my pity party, but my cup runneth under. In fact, without my old Macky-Doo, I know there’s an irreparable crack through its very core.