Hey There, Wait a Minute Mr. Postman...

This letter is to Tom, my mailman.

Dearest Tom,
It has become painfully clear to me that you take more than the usual amount of interest in the personal lives of those you serve on your route. In order to keep you from any more sleepless nights, im giving you the inside scoop on the Mills family. My hope is that our family's comings and goings will no longer be a mystery to you and all the time you spend milking my good friend for information can now be put to better use sorting and delivering the mail. (You know, the job which you are actually compensated for.)

I got knocked up in high school. For a while I was a bitter, hateful bitch that would rather tell someone to go die in a fire than to say 'hi'. (I know the looks you get when you pull up to my box would lead you to believe not much has changed, but rest assured, I am alot nicer nowdays. Just not to you. ) At 19 I met my husband Chad and he made an honest(ish) woman of me. He's a good man with no strange fetishes or garrish secrets in his past, but you already know that, don't ya, Tom? If his lack of receiving porn through the mail leads you to believe he must be an 'internet' man, I'd like to cordially invite you over some Sunday for dinner and a 'browser history check' as a show of good faith. Im pretty sure the Postal Service's motto is, "Leave no stone unturned in the personal lives of those on your route", and I just want to help you help yourself... to a big ol' helping of my personal life.

Chad and I love each other and for the past 10 years have made a life together, most of which has been spent in WF. Our marriage is good but far from storybook. We've lost jobs, gone through a bankruptcy, suffered the loss of beloved family members under tragic circumstances, and struggled with the day to day stresses of being married with three kids. We argue. Not violently and never for long, but sometimes I wake up pissy or Chad has a crappy day at work and we get into it. No guns or knives are drawn so i consider us 'normal' in that department. Our sex life is great. We enjoy 3-5 romps a week, kids and schedules permitting. I still think he's cute and he still whistles and slaps my butt when he see's me naked. I think that's nice, don't you, Tom?

Our sons are good kids. We try to raise them right but who knows. I guess we'll find out about our kids like everyone else does. Do our best, wait for them to grow up and hope to God that they are kind and caring or at least smart enough to hide the bodies well. I sure hope they have been respectful to you in the past.

Now me, on the other hand, I don't like you. I think you need to mind your own damn business and start acting more like a middle aged man and less like a 15 yr old girl sniffing around for a fresh bit for the schools gossip column. Next time you have a question about me or my family, do me a favor. Place my mail in the box, drive straight into town and get a fucking life of your own.


Sincerely,
Misty Mills

Cadillacs and Donkey Shows

Once a month I go a wee bit crazy and all the emotions Ive denied having for the past 28 days suddenly come pouring out in strange and unusual ways. Some months it comes and goes without causing much of a problem in my home life and others result in my husband sleeping on the couch of a fat, balding man who works at the grilled cheese shop off the square. This is one of those months...

Chad works from home. The vertically challenged sociopaths I harbor are out of school due to the blizzard and I am cycling like a mofo. Yes, the subject of divorce has been broached however no one is buried in a frosty, shallow grave out back, so Im considering this week a 'win'.

Today, a salesman from Windstream came to my door and Im pretty sure he's at home still hugging his wife after what he saw.

Whenever someone knocks on the door, our little inbred Pomeranian mistake starts to yap uncontrollably. I yell for Andrew to take the damn dog into Alex's room and shut the door. Then I open the front door. Im pissed because it's cold outside and this doucher looks 'slow'. Im wearing gray and green thermal socks, leggings, an oversized tshirt, a lime green robe and I have a large greasy wad on the top of my head. I can only guess that the look on my face was off putting or I smelled. Both are possible. Hell, it could have been a combination of the two. I dont really care. So he begins his pitch about the services they offer and what great deals they are...I just closed the door. But our door is kind of messed up and sometimes it doesnt 'catch' when you shut it. The only way to make sure it's shut is to reopen it and slam it super hard. So not only is this dude forced to go door to door in a damn blizzard, but he got the door slammed in his face twice by possibly the skankiest woman he's ever laid eyes on. (I cant say for sure, but Im crossing my fingers that he's worked in Madison County before and he's seen alot worse.)

Does this happen to anyone else?! Am I the weird chick on the commercial with the gray and fuzzy sad face while all her super hot, skinny friends are drinking colorful cocktails and laughing?! I dont wanna be that girl!

I'd like to go to the doctor and maybe get a pill for this but I'm legitimately worried she's gonna tell me there is no hope aside from electric shock therapy and some sort of 12 step program for assholes.

Here's what I think I need: A really strong drink, a hysterectomy and a time machine that propells me back to the day after Ryan Reynolds broke up with Alanis Morissette... cuz Im sure he was vulnerable and AINT NO WAY im crazier than that bitch! Problem solved. =)