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Change Is Hard (duh, it’s made out of a blend of metals)

22 Mar

Ok, look, I know change is hard. Which is why I want to start preparing you guys now. Dear Mr. Postman is getting a facelift, an upgrade, a custom-made home. I’ve loved this site, and its look has gotten better over the years, mostly due to my friend Ashleigh’s totally unrecognized and uncompensated efforts– and she deserves a trophy for it–

but shit just got real. Since November I’ve been working on a design with rockstar developer/coder/cool-glasses-wearer Taylor Black from Fizzy Media (tagline: We make beautiful things) (testimonial: it’s true). And Taylor has promised me the new design is close, very close, so I wanted to start prepping you guys.

I know it’s hard when websites change. I usually have an adjustment period where I yell a lot and jam my fingers at buttons and accidentally end up reading comments, which send me into a sneaky hate spiral.

This is nothing, actually, compared to what I do when things in real life change. When I was four, I went into the backyard to play and discovered our picnic table was gone. My dad was just putting the finishing knots on the ropes securing it in the back of a truck– it was on its way to the dump. Now, this thing was old and battered and rotting and falling apart and gave me splinters every time I touched it. Ten minutes later, my dad was hauling the picnic table back up the stairs, around the back of the house, and into place in the backyard to give me a few minutes alone with it.

Unfortunately, my dad didn’t learn his lesson. He’s stubborn that way. Two years later, he made the serious and foolish mistake of dismantling and removing our incredibly heavy, solid oak round kitchen table from the dining nook and putting it in the basement while I was at a friend’s house. I came home to find a rectangular table in the nook. Are you kidding me? I had learned to color, and talk, and eat, at the other table. I had eaten my after-school snacks here! Told all my best stories! My face knew the comforting curve of the legs from napping under it with the cats. Who eats at a rectangular table? It was literally going to divide our family down the middle.

My dad, ever the tough negotiator, suggested perhaps I could go say good-bye to the other table where it was. He pointed out rather insistently that it wasn’t gone, it was just down the stairs in the basement. And this new table, like the old one, also weighed approximately 100 pounds and he’d just finished assembling it. Ha! Delusional man. I opened my negotiations with “get rid of this new one and keep the old one forever otherwise my childhood is ruined.” The old table came back up to its rightful place for me to say a proper farewell.

My mom, however, would not bring the old, ratty, and torn curtains back. She insisted that the new curtains were in fact almost identical. I knew better. This cream was entirely different than the light fawn of the old. It took weeks, but I gradually adjusted. Eventually I couldn’t remember what the old curtains looked like. Then I mourned the loss of that memory, feeling that I’d failed them.

Look, all I’m saying is, I’m really lucky we never moved houses when I was a kid. Or my parents are. Also, you may laugh if you know me at the idea that I’m now way more “flexible” but EVERYTHING IS RELATIVE.

And the new site looks amazing, and I’m so proud of it, and it really has been made exactly for Dear Mr. Postman. It’s tailored (taylored!) so well for this dumb, sweet, incredibly heavy, splintery blog that I’ve been writing for so many years now. So we’re doing it. We’re moving. If you’re anything like me, it’s time to start saying good-bye.

And I ask for your patience and fortitude when we do switch over– it’ll take some time to get used to the new layout, but I think it’ll be worth it. And hopefully it’s designed to last so you can settle in knowing that it’ll be around for a while– like this stupid-ass pine rectangular kitchen table I’m writing this post on right now. And of course, there might be kinks to work out, and I’m hoping you’ll let me know what’s working and not working, so I can try to help make the transition as smooth as possible. I may not be quite as terrified of your screams the superhero that my dad was, but I’ll do my best.

PS– I’m really sorry, Dad.


Stupid Things I’ve Said This Week That I Stand By

4 Feb

“That’s not how feelings feel.”

“I don’t watch TV for the drama.”

“This would be easier if it wasn’t so hard.”

“As long as you’re alive you’re ok.”

“I don’t care if people have mismatched motives for hooking up.”

“Doesn’t he know how to do that? I mean, I don’t, but.”

“Do you think it’s even possible to win the Tour d’France without steroids? I mean, Lance won it with cancer, so.”

“I don’t watch the Bachelor. At least not alone.”

“I’ve never felt so simultaneously underqualified and overqualified at the same time.”

“I have no upper body strength and I’m scared of heights, so I figure I should take up rock climbing.”

“No, I’m not on I’m on Facebook.”

“How do you think Dave Franco feels?”

It’s like the pressurized cabin short-circuits my brain for 24 hours post-airplane

15 Nov

I was going to do this whole post yesterday where I would say:

My dog does this exact thing when we have a breath-holding contest!

And then post that video clip from Friends where Joey is holding his breath and Phoebe says, “Joey’s been holding his breath for almost four minutes!”

Then Chandler plugs Joey’s nose. Joey sucks in breath through his mouth and says, “ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL ME?!?”

Then… My dog does this exact thing when we have a breath-holding contest!


Do you know the one? It would have been funny, right?

But I couldn’t find the clip online. I went down a bit of a YouTube wormhole looking for it. But I had a lot of things on my to-do list. So eventually I had to quit.

You know the day after you get back from a lovely but tiring trip and you have two appointments back-to-back in the morning and there’s a lot of construction so you’re late for the first one and then you go to the wrong doctor’s office for the second one and by the time you drag yourself back home at lunchtime you feel like you’ve been punched in the brain and there are people painting so the whole house smells like paint and you haven’t unpacked and you need to go to the drugstore but there’s not a chance in hell of that happening and people keep emailing you and you’re like damn these are lovely great emails and I cannot handle them right now but then someone emails and changes your appointment for the next day to Friday so all of a sudden you have a day of reprieve and you finally breathe and take the dog for a walk?

Anyway. Would it have been funny?

My dog totally does do that. It’s like she doesn’t understand the concept at all.

Dear Bruce Jenner and Kris Jenner

24 Jun

My parents are having distinct reactions to their occasional presence on my blog. One of them doesn’t want to appear on it. The other enjoys making the occasional appearance.

Now I suspect that one of them is trying to control me. And one of them is trying to get famous through me.

I feel just like a Kardashian.  


Dear Running into People You Know

20 Jun

I dread running into people I know. When I was younger I used to duck and run. Or just, well, not be that friendly. I was definitely one of those kids whose mothers was always saying, “If you would just smile!” Or: “Well she’d be friendly if you’d be friendly!” Or: “Just smile and say hi and you’d be surprised where a friend might be hiding!”

My mom won homecoming queen in high school. She claims she won because she transcended her high school insecurities and was friendly to everyone. The cool kids, the geeks, the band nerds. The freshmen.

I did not win homecoming queen in high school.

Me, avoiding you.

And that’s the thing– I’m already talking about being a teenager, being in high school, in relation to running into people I know. Because that’s how I feel when it happens. About thirteen years old. Maaaaaybe sixteen on a good day: at sixteen I had friends, I knew a boy liked me (some days), I had had a good hair day (at least one), and I knew I wasn’t a “cool” kid but it didn’t particularly matter. But I still wouldn’t want to say hi if you didn’t say hi first, sort of assumed that unless we were already friends, you didn’t want to talk to me.

I’m pretty sure this whole social anxiety thing when you run into someone you know is universal, because I’m snot-full of confidence otherwise, and pretty much always have been.

So! Now I live in Seattle again, and glory of glories, I haven’t run into anyone yet. This means it’ll happen tomorrow, and I’ll be a little worn out, just back from vacation, a little stressed about all the things I have to do, and it’ll be someone who makes me feel like I have spinach in my teeth. I may, in fact, actually have spinach in my teeth when it happens. And I’ll run into that girl whose hair I always envied and I once accidentally sneezed on, and she’ll be newly engaged and dangling off the arm of her fiance, who once told me in middle school that I had more hair on my upper lip than he did on his. Jackass.

It’ll be terrible. I’ll probably survive though. In the physical sense.

I dread running into Ms. Hair and Mr. Hair, though, not because they’re beautiful and happy and in love, but because I’m worried they’ll judge me. I’m worried that they think my hair looks bad, and that they think I’m still a total goody two-shoes (I am), and that they think I’m lame for not-so-secretly thinking Mallrats is a really, really good movie. Also: Varsity Blues. And I’m still sort of fascinated by the periodic table of elements. And– I could go on, but I won’t while I still have my dignity.

Snot-full of confidence, folks. And dignity.

They think I’m they think I’m they think I’m they think I’m.

I don’t dread running into people I know because I don’t want to see them— well, okay, sometimes, yes, but that’s another story. I dread running into people I know because I’m worried they’re judging me. Me me me mememe.

I’m really much happier if I ignore that aspect of it and spend my energy judging them.

I may or may not be kidding.

But I do know this: I’m at an age, and of a mind, that it is unacceptable to not be friendly when I see people I know. Friendly to people I know: a smile, a handshake, a few questions. Required. I haven’t perfected this, but I’m working on it, and I will continue to work on it. I’m pretty good with names, and I also believe in asking when I don’t know, and I’m trying to get even better. Hot tip: it’s easiest to ask (again) within the first five minutes.

And, really, the last time you ran into someone who was incredibly friendly, no matter how or when you knew them or what you thought of them then–  you walked away thinking only wow she was friendly! (Right? Right?!?)

Or, you know, maybe:

And with that big smile, you could really see the spinach in her teeth!


She’s totally after my fiance! The audacity, to be standing there smiling at him like that with that sexy mustache!



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