i have pots. pots that have been sitting all summer long filled with good dirt. dirt i bought in the store and was supposed to use gloves to touch. i haven't planted anything in that rich, fertile soil. i've walked by those pots again and again and i've noticed them with little care. suddenly, they have become as obsession and a slight source of shame. i have to plant the pots. everyone else has planted their pots. if i don't plant these pots, it's a testiment to my continuing failed domesticity. i rushed out to the hardware store yeterday and purchased 6 mums. they will be tasting that soil this afternoon. i'm going to impress the mailman who has walked by my empty pots many a day. yes, i care what the mailman thinks.
sometimes the mailman walks by and the kids are insane, my house is a pit and i'm unshowered. this is all revealed to him by this huge bay window we decided to leave "untreated" in our livingroom. and on most days i like it like that. i can see the blooming bushes we planted last year. the sun comes in. the occasional bunny or wandering cat flits through the yard and we watch hoping the two never meet. but then there's the mailman. he's not peeping. he's just walking to deliver the mail. he always looks up, headphones unabashedly obvious but still aware of things around him. he always smiles and waves at us. but i sometimes feel like he get this innacurate snapshot of my life, where i am at my less than fabulous. and in a moment, the mailman has decided how my family lives and how i'm a frenzied, non-showered parent with out of control kids. and maybe it bugs me because this snapshot has some truth to it. because after he leaves me with more bills and plump must-have advertising/coupon packages, i am not suddenly calm, primped and in control. and then of course there are those unplanted pots. i think i might hate my mailman.
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