My postcard writing campaign was an unparalleled success. Only because it didn’t start. And by didn’t start I mean NO ONE sent me their addresses. I’ve chosen to classify the endeavor as an unparalleled success rather than a crashing failure. Apparently my writing sounds like that of a 250 lb ex convict with a hook for a hand. I will admit it has saved me the trouble of buying a can opener.
I digress. So I sent the last post out to my family and friends requesting that they forward it and share it. Everyone agreed whole heartedly to do so prior to reading the post. Invariably I received a message or an email a day later with the words “I thought it was a joke.”
Ladies and gentleman, nothing with a stamp on it is a joke. Unless of course you’re talking about the content of my correspondence, in which case I am joking about running for president of the universe. But only because that position doesn’t exist.
Hence for whatever reason, not a single soul sent me their address. No amount of assurances that I’m a small blonde woman whose only legal transgression has been failing to change the address on her driver’s license (the irony is too much isn’t it?) could change their minds.
Thus I’ll just have to fill my address book with the mailing addresses for obscure celebrities. It will be like when I was sixteen and in lieu of entering in friend’s digits into my phone book, I wrote down the customer service lines for Nabisco and 1-800-TALL-MEN.
I spent many a lazy afternoon telephoning the last number asking Michael Jordan if he would come over and retrieve the good crackers from their hiding place on the top shelf.
If you’ll excuse me, I have to find Michael Jordan’s address now. I’m sure the former athletic super star will love my Louvre postcard asking him to come over and look in the high up crawl space in my closet to see whether I shoved a plate warmer in there.