So, I must admit, I am just not doing my job.
Well, not quite that. Ever since I retired, I can brag that I don’t actually have a job. Not, of course, in the traditional sense.
Because I write mostly about politics, the audience for this blog skews toward older readers. I say that because I looked at the turnout in the Democratic primaries, and the 18-29 age category was the most under-represented.
Now, you may remember that I promised not to write about politics any more until there were just two candidates running for office. I was just too saturated with all the 30-second prepared soundbite yelling, and the fact that the role of “Gotcha Master” had been taken away from reporters by some of the candidates themselves.
Well, I am mostly keeping my word, even if sometimes a little politics sneaks its nose under the tent. After all, everything comes down to politics sooner or later.
But, to get back to the point, I am not keeping up with all of the duties life had assigned to me. That’s what I mean by not doing my job. I rake leaves in the yard, and more leaves come down. I fill a hole in the yard, and the dogs dig another one. I clean up dog poop after I let them out…well don’t get me started on that one. Or on the cat litter box issue either.
What is bothering me today came in an envelope about a week ago, maybe two. It was a nicely-produced, shiny and attractive page of peel-off labels. It had birds and flowers and rainbows on it, all next to my name and address.
In truth, it was my wife’s name, but New York is a no-fault community property state, so I am fully within my rights to claim 25 of those 50 return address stickers as my own.
And half of the thirty we got two days before that, and the 40 that came earlier that week. And the two or three dozen folded up behind them, all waiting their turn to go on a bill that we will mail back for payment.
My problem is that I don’t write nearly enough letters to use up all those stickers. They come a lot faster than I can send them out.
It would be easier if I wasn’t a little bit of a hoarder or an environmentalist, or if I didn’t believe somewhere deep down that there may be a future literary famine and no more free return address stickers will be coming in. Just think of the seconds I could lose without that convenience.
And this isn’t happening in a vacuum. I get offers for 10 free trees every summer, letters from the president or his wife - the signature is right there at the bottom of the page - asking for money, and enough free pens and calendars, paper clips and magnetic stickers to hold a garage sale.
Obviously, I am not using those things up fast enough. See what I mean by not doing my job.
I once felt strongly enough by the plight of some small Indian tribe to send them a donation. They sent me a dream catcher in return. Then another came, and another and another after that. I actually tracked them down, called, and offered to make another donation if they would just take me off their mailing list. That was four dream catchers ago.
It’s like getting a call from someone working for a politician and asking for money. If you donate, they just hire more people to keep calling you and asking for money. That seems to be the only thing that Democrats and Republicans can agree about.
Now I’m wondering just how many return address labels it would take to paper a bathroom wall. It would be different, I admit, but artists are always looking for creative re-use of things.
Think of the artistic statement that would make about modern communications, what cell phones and e-mail have done to letter writing, even about my insecurity over my identity as an artist.
Not to mention my pride in my address, and my love of birds and flowers and even the hearts on the stickers that came around Valentine’s Day.
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