Archive | July 6, 2010

How much trouble would I get in for “liberating” the globe mallow growing in the post office lawn?

And why do I have a package from Spain?

When I checked the mail yesterday (in other news, I checked the mail yesterday) I found a pick-up slip for a package.  I’m expecting a book, so I thought that’s what it was for, and was a little miffed that the mail carrier didn’t just put it in one of the bigger boxes and leave me a key.  The date on it was July 1st, which seemed a little soon to receive the book–it was only a day or two after I ordered it, but, perhaps the Amazon 3rd party seller was on the ball.

When I got to the post office, and after hearing boxes fall at least three times in the back room, the clerk came out with this:

Yeah, I don’t think that’s my book.

While he was processing the package, I noticed it was from Spain.

I don’t know anybody in Spain.

Well, anybody who’d send me a package.  (Lopes, I’d be open to a package from Spain if you’d be willing to send it to me)

That’s neither the name or the city of the one guy I know in Spain.

I signed for it, thinking it might be for my roommate.  It’s not her name on the label, but what I call her isn’t her name.  She’s from Taiwan, and I refer to her by her American name.  Perhaps she has a Spanish name, too.

But then I realized that it was postmarked before she moved in.

So…yeah.  I wish I hadn’t signed for it now.  I don’t know what to do.

I’ll ask the roommate if she knows anything about it, and, I guess if when she doesn’t I get to take it back to the post office and explain why I signed for it when it clearly doesn’t belong at my house, despite having my address on it.   That’ll be fun.

So, this mysterious box, that’s passed through customs is sitting in the middle of my living room, and will likely go back to the post office unopened.

I don’t know what’s going to happen to it from there.  I mean it’s been from Malaga, to Madrid, to New York, to Orem, and from there, who knows…

The poor little guy just needs a home.  Just not my home.  The home of the people on the address label who don’t live at my house.

Edit: oh, this is globe mallow: This particular one is growing in the Leamington cemetery, not the Orem Post Office lawn.  It’s my favorite local wildflower, and I’ve seen it sold as a xeriscaping plant, but never growing as a weed before.

I probably don’t have enough sunlight to keep it alive, anyway.

Edit #2:

The Mystery of the Spanish Package will officially remain unsolved.  The roommate, as predicted, didn’t know anything about it, so I took it back to the post office.  It’s on it’s way back to Spain.

I’m too much like my dad.  Mom or Sis would have had it open before they left the Post Office parking lot.

I know it’s a long shot, but if the D. Antonio from Malaga, Spain who sent a package to someone with the same last name in Orem, Utah, The United States, reads this, can you please let me know what was in it?  Thanks.

Control Issues

I woke up this morning before six, thanks to a combination of a full bladder, and a little dog who also had a full bladder.   Our respective problems resolved, I was then faced with the quandary of not being able to go back to sleep.  Which would be less annoying if I had made it to bed before 2am.

While out with the dogs, I found myself thinking about the conversation I had with my Relief Society President on Sunday.  Her whole purpose in visiting was to make sure I was still alive, and to talk to me about why I haven’t been coming to church.

I explained about the agoraphobia, and how overwhelmed I get in crowds.  She was sympathetic, and asked if smaller gatherings would be better.  I then had to explain that I’m also introverted, and while I love stuff like giving talks and speeches, and teaching, I struggle with conversation because I can’t plan out what it is that I want to say.

This conversation, and the Montaigne that kept me up ’til 2 last night were tumbling through my head while I was out with the dogs, and I had a revelation.   More than anything, it’s about control.  There is so much in my life (like everything) that I feel like I don’t control now, that I grasp on to whatever I can dictate for myself, like if I want to have a conversation or not.  That control is why I write.  It’s why I play games like The Sims.  It’s why when I know my favorite shows on Hulu are coming to an end, I don’t watch the last few episodes.  It’s not that I don’t want closure, it’s that I want the control to end things on my terms.

And I’m petty and self-destructive enough that if I feel like I don’t have the control I crave, I’ll end things prematurely, or drag them out over too long a period.

Maybe that’s normal, I don’t know.  I feel like I’m so far away from normal, I’ve forgotten what it looks like–if I ever knew.

All I know is I need something I can control.  Anything.

%d bloggers like this: