I have been meaning to embark on the sending out of Christmas cards and presents, which have been sitting ready to be wrapped and mailed for months. All I needed was the pictures, which I have had for five days. I figured a couple of hours and I would be set. Six hours and eight Diet Dr. Peppers later, my hands are shaking as I am rushing to wrap the last gifts and get them into a box. I tried to ghetto-fy a 24-pack of DDP to get the last two boxes, but that only put me behind schedule as I realized how stupid the packaging was going to look and how my relatives would feel opening a package that was only slightly more flimsy than OJ Simpson's insistance he didn't do it.

I got to the post office with a little time to spare. I sent a few things, then said I would use the Automatic Postage Center for the rest, thinking I would save time. 27 minutes later, it's my turn at the thing which takes far too much time to print out a stamp. Fifteen questions regarding do I want insurance, do I want return reciept, do I want fries with that? I get done there, then head over to Wally World. I stocked up on the soy yogurt which makes Handsome's poops the consistancy of runny toxic waste and the color of Martian snot, then headed to the Kill Your Self Checkout. I was elated that the first six items went through without needing my Social Security number and me letting go of my noose, then it got stuck on BA-Na-Nas. Handsome can say bananas better with a mouthful of Christmas ribbon and pushpins than the computer voice of the Kill Your Self Checkout. I had to put my BA-Na-Nas back onto the scale after the conveyer belt almost sucked them back under the scale in its rush to correct that I did not place the BA-Na-Nas in the fourth sphere of cosine 40-786 seven inches from the scale. I finally complete my transaction, collect my $200 for passing go, fill out my retirement paperwork because it's taken 40 years to finish at Wal-Mart, and go home.

Once there, I put a box of mail I got from our mailbox and post office box into the living room. Handsome has been diaper-less for over an hour. I'm baking blueberry muffins to help Bubba surprise her daddy, trying to heat up some dinner of leftover spaghetti for myself, and feeling proud of myself for putting a lot of stuff away even while overwhelmed with presents and cards, when I see Handsome sitting in the box of mail and get a look of concentration while looking at his weenie. Yup, Handsome peed in the box of mail. I then stomp around, trying to clean it up, peel the pee-soaked receipts from the bottom of the box, move the mail onto a clean, dry surface so that maybe one of the dogs will come over and shit on it just to one-up Handsome, and keep Mower from helping at all because in order for him to, it would ruin the surprise Bubba wanted to serve him. Not that my wonderful darling spouse would get up at anything other than the burning desire to sit on the toilet for thirty-five minutes while staring at magazines we will never read outside of the bathroom, but just to make sure, I went ahead and took care of the pee leaking out of the box onto the freshly steam-cleaned carpet.

I finally get an opportunity to sit down and eat my spaghetti, and I reach down to sort through the wet and dry mail to find the item that caught my eye before the waterfall of urine befell the poor mail. Mower looks over and asks, "Reading some Christpiss cards?"

And that is the exact reason I married my hemorrhoid--the ability to make me laugh even when I want to chunk it all and watch the whole ten seasons of Friends, one right after the other, because that world seems better than mine. Thanks for letting me handle pee mail and getting me to giggle and blog just when I needed it. Love you, Poopyhead.