God Bless the USPS

Through wind and rain and snow my arse. I busted my aforementioned derriere this past Tuesday to get a giant box of presents wrapped and in the mail for my brother and niece. It's the first Christmas of joint custody and I wanted to make sure that she had equal representation of gifts from our clan as from her (eh-hem) mother's family. I wrapped each item in colorful paper and filled a box measuring 2.5' square. So, lots of pressies for Lizard. I raced to the post office at 5:30pm and stood in line for 20 minutes before getting to the cashier. "I need this in San Diego by Sunday, what do you suggest?" He recommended Priority with delivery confirmation. Done. Task complete and now I can fly to ET in piece knowing Santa was on his way.

Nope. I spoke to my bro last night on his first Christmas eve sans Lizard. Frozen pizza and vanilla stout but no box of gifts. Ug. According to the USPS hotline, the package was delivered at 1:03 pm on December 24. But, bro has no box. UG.

So, if you happen to be a dirty crackhead in the San Diego area and you stole my box of presents (it's the one with the American Idol Barbie and Bratz Lip Gloss) Freaking give it back you lousy piece of dirt. Come on, it's Christmas. Screw what you think about the religious or commercial sides of this day. This isn't about Jesus or Trump or teaching intelligent design or the Ten Commandments carved in the court house floor or Kiwanis or Chanuka or freaking Festivus. This is about an 8 year old girl who has had a shitty year and deserves for just one day to be the recipient of a ton of crap. Crap she never even knew she wanted, but crap she now knows she can't live without. So, stick your bah humbug up your bah bum butt and bring back my box.

OK, so here's where you see into my brain. Just as I am typing this, I begin to think about who might actually have taken the box. And up pops a picture of a guy in a gray overcoat, dirty gray jeans, boots with holes in the toes, a cap with a hole in the side and gloves with no fingers. He is the father of a little girl with whom he lives under an overpass off the 163. It's my favorite stretch of interstate or freeway or highway or just about any road in the world. It runs through Balboa Park and the overpass is made up of a giant archway surrounded by green - plants, trees grass - just mushed together to make this picturesque sight as you drive into downtown San Diego. It's out of place, and at the same time just peaceful and - mmmm - I love it. So, this guy in my head, he lives under the overpass with his little girl and they spend their days trolling around the park, digging out half eaten hotdogs from the garbage cans and he takes her into the museums in the park to teach her about history and science. And, on this particular Christmas, this man saw a box on a porch on C street and he took it. To his surprise, the box was full of presents Tailor made for a little girl. How fortuitous. It's like Santa led him to this porch. It's like God told the postman to leave the box on the porch rather than ringing a bell and asking a neighbor to take it in where it would be safe. It's, well, it's a bonafide Christmas miracle. So, good. Lizard seems to have gotten a goodly amount of gifts without this box and the little girl who lives under the underpass, well, she's having the best day of her year.

All is well. Gee, thanks USPS. You saved Christmas.

God bless us everyone.