Deliver me, oh Lawd: how sharing a house number with Mary Ann is my cross to bear

I don't think I shared the last Mary Ann summer package dilemma. "Stop me if you've heard this." Well, that might be tough. That comment might make more sense if you ran into me at a barbeque and I'd just had a few adult beverages and was slurring my words and swaying. Dare to dream.

I've glanced through my posts (about as thoroughly as one might do a few days before Christmas with other things that still need attention), and I don't think this story ever made it to the blogosphere.

*As a reminder, earlyin the summer  Mary Ann was mad enough to chew nails because a delivery guy handed Curly a package while she was playing on the driveway. Curly plunked it on our kitchen island. We all ignored it for no more than 45 minutes. It didn't arrive in your typical Amazon brown box. Instead:  white box. Picture of a fan. White label with Mary Ann's address. Guess what's tough to see? A white label on a white box. Plus we were busy, and unaware that if her new air purifier didn't get delivered there might be hell to pay. I texted her after she scolded Coach thinking one of our kids had opened her outer brown box. More reason to think she runs a drug ring through her deliveries. DID YOU OPEN THIS? I NEED MY CHILL PILLS. MY UPPERS, MY DOWNERS. WHERE THE FUCK ARE THEY? Anyway, my text was to the point. It basically spelled it out:  didn't open it. Didn't notice the white label. Didn't ask for your package to be delivered here. Up. Yours. - in so many words.*

In August, she texted me. It was one of those 'WHERE'S THE BEEF MY PACKAGE' texts, but I noticed a sickly sweet after taste to it. Bottom line was she had yet to receive her daughter's covid test kit. Daughter wouldn't be able to go to Notre Dame for her scheduled time slot if she didn't take the covid test 10 days in advance.

I'm not a monster. I didn't WANT daughter to have a screwed up college experience. I just found Mary Ann's change in tone interesting. Maybe she FINALLY got the message from my 'take your white boxed air purifier and jam it up your ass' (not in those exact words) text. She asked about Ed: "When will he return to school?"

I'm always touched when an extremely self-involved person decides to pretend to be interested. 

Daughter's covid test package never arrived here. I assume they received it at some point because about 10 days later there was a commotion on Mary Ann's driveway.

Mary Ann's car radio was cranked up. The car was loaded with college stuff. Grandparents were there delivering hugs to daughter. It appeared to be a college sendoff. Then a thing happened that I cannot un-see . . .  

Mary Ann stepped next to the car and danced IN BROAD DAYLIGHT to whatever music was blaring (sorry, you know me and music. -can't remember the song). A self-righteous, uptight, high strung, white woman attempting to dance is not a sight that should happen unless we are standing at a barbeque armed with the afore-mentioned adult beverages. 

Daughter probably couldn't get her shit unloaded in her dorm room fast enough. 

For the record, I didn't respond to Mary Ann's 'and what about Ed' text with any Ed info. Just the facts:  NO COVID TEST HAS BEEN DELIVERED HERE. WE'LL KEEP AN EYE OUT.     

Enter the Christmas season, also known as HATE THY NEIGHBOR SEASON for those of us who live across the street from someone with the same damn house number.

I've gotten a couple of "HEY ENRIE, HAVE YOU SEEN MY PACKAGE? FEDEX CLAIMS IT ARRIVED 11.5 MINUTES AGO AND I DON'T SEE IT. THANKS!" texts this month. We always scurry around looking through the stack of boxes by the front door in search of her stuff fearing the house might spontaneously combust. But we haven't found any . . . until today, as I prepared to draft this. Honest. UPS delivered a package for her and I made Reg run it across the street like the wind.

Its beginning to look a lot like Christmas.

Then the other day she texted me this:  

Riveting, I know.

The messages are more civil, thanks for small favors. But she'd been asking me about a box from Ulta. So I asked if that's what we were still looking for. Then she decided to share what was in the missing package - which honestly wouldn't help me because I opted not to renew my x-ray vision this year.

I saw:  DEACON ALB in her text and I thought. Oh, yeah - wait, WTF is that? I googled it. 

Mary Ann's husband became a deacon over the summer. He's a nice guy. Tank heard her order him around on the driveway a few months back and it made him shudder. Just so you know, it isn't just me. 

Anyway, after a thousand years of Catholic school I learned that a Deacon Alb is a garment. Anyone else find it interesting that Mary Ann wanted me to know what was inside this particular box? She's transparent as hell. At the risk of sounding envious of her 'situation' for being married to a deacon and all, which really, I embrace my faith and feel blessed to have it, but she can go ahead and be married to the deacon. I'm good, or should I say I'm NOT good? . . . I don't think deacon's wives are allowed to swear like a sailor, so I've already braced myself to never be part of that particular designation. Shucks.

I have a theory:

Having a husband as a deacon is a feather in her cap, and  mentioning it would insure that I KNEW he was a deacon. I mean, feather away, lady. Load your damn cap with feathers. But if new feathers get delivered here by mistake, don't get all cranky and then a minute later start dolling out the 'Have a blessed day' stuff. It's really tough to swallow.

Have you ever seen a deacon's wife in a movie? Is it me, or aren't they always the pucker-faced, tight-ass types who don't ever have any fun? If the shoe fits, or in this case the Alb. 

Merry Christmas everyone! I'm not as scroogies as this post makes me sound. If you aren't too busy wrapping, check back tomorrow . . . I might have another post up my non-Alb wearing sleeve. (it's just too easy sometimes)