Where's The Fun In That?

It used to be fun to get mail. There was the promise of an actual hand-written letter, maybe a post card from some exotic locale. The last time I received an actual hand-written letter or post card was... I have no idea. I think I still had braces.  Not so fun getting mail anymore. I open the mail box, only to find bills and catalogues and, God willing, nothing that says Jury Duty. I live in fear of Jury Duty. I've done it.  I don't want to do it again.  And now that I've put it out there, I'll probably be summoned by the end of the week.  Why can't I keep my fears to myself? Sometimes I over share. I'm a giver.

It used to be fun to get email. BF (before Facebook), there was the promise of communication with long-lost friends. BT (before texting), there was the promise of communication with a college son. "Hi, Mom. I miss you.  Send socks." These days, my early morning email is full of BS (bupkis supremo). Cheryl's Gift Baskets. ModCloth.  Concert Vault. Amazon. Not to mention exciting growth opportunities, financial and otherwise.  Schlong Enlargement.  Really?  Delete.  Delete.  Delete.

It used to be fun to answer the phone.  There was the promise of an actual friend calling to check in, maybe a son calling to say, "Hi, Mom, I'm coming by to give you flowers and read you a poem I wrote about the wonder that is you."  These days, I thank God for caller i.d. I can see who's calling to bother me, and it's usually no one I know. It's someone other than a son wanting money, someone I don't know trying to guilt me into giving.  This is a variety of guilt I don't need.  So please, all you greedy anonymous emailers and cold callers, leave the SJG alone. Don't ask me for anything, and I won't give you anything, not even a credit card, and that way, no one gets disappointed.