I’m sure I’ll either be entered into the Guinness Book of World Records or achieve some other historically noteworthy distinction as being known as the “Human Equivalent of Murphy’s Law.” It’s not an exaggeration to say that if something could possibly go wrong in my life, it definitely did.

Case in point: A few days after I obtained my new mailbox, I came home from running errands in the early afternoon only to find Dick sitting in the family room watching his favorite show, The Young and the Restless. 

In his hand was a postcard which he immediately thrust at me and then confronted me about. After reading the message scrawled on it, I inwardly silently screamed at the top of my lungs, OH…F*#K!!!

As my luck would have it, somehow when I was filling out the paperwork for my P.O. Box, I inadvertently managed to leave off the name of our town where my mail should have been delivered.

The clerk checking over the information obviously overlooked that too.  But lo and behold, it was eventually discovered and instead of contacting me by phone to obtain the correct village, I received a card in my home mailbox informing me that I needed to provide the necessary data before my request could be processed.

And as everything else in my life and divorce process seemed to be going for me, it should have been no surprise that Dick would be home in the early afternoon on that particular week day to intercept that correspondence, read it and react to it, instead of being at work, treating patients like most normal physicians would have been doing.

Immediately, like a panther stalking its prey, he pounced. “You can do whatever you want with your mail, but you can’t do anything with Ashley’s mail. We are both her parents and you have no right making this decision for her  without consulting me. I talked to my attorney and you are in serious trouble for what you did. You  better take her off the P.O. Box or we will take you to court over this,” Dick announced.

*What he really meant here was that I couldn’t do anything that concerned our daughter, but he had every right to do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, without discussing it with me.

With total disgust welling up inside of me, I replied as calmly as humanly possible, “At this point, you have no right touching anyone’s mail but your own.

Ashley and I both know that you took a letter that was addressed to her, opened it and took out the contents. She never got a chance to see it. This was her mail.

She is a teenager and deserves to have her privacy respected.  But no, you couldn’t stop there. Recently you opened other letters that were addressed to her.

You now have a P.O. Box where your mail is being delivered. There is absolutely no reason for you to be handling ANY mail that comes to this house. It’s not for you.

But, not only do you bring in the mail, you also go through it and open whatever you want.

That’s mail tampering and it’s a federal offense.

So in answer to your demand, NO I will not have Ashley’s mail delivered back to this house. As long as it is being delivered to our P.O. Box, she will receive all of her mail UNOPENED!!!

The only reason we had to get our mail delivered somewhere else is because you crossed the line and have taken things way too far. If you’d mind your own business, this wouldn’t have happened.

This is your fault. Don’t turn around and blame me for your actions. You think you are threatening and scaring me?

*Actually he was, but I was damned if I was going to let him know it.

Go to court and waste more time and money over frivolous matters. I can’t wait to tell the judge what really went on here.”

With that, I turned around, walked out of the house, got into my car and drove to a (thankfully) uninhabited park in my development. I turned off the ignition and sat in the driver’s seat trying to come to terms with what just transpired.

My body couldn’t contain itself any longer and finally let loose with what it so honorably kept together until I reached a safe location.

Shaking like an addict going through withdrawal, I sat alone in my vehicle until the spasmodic convulsions ravaging my muscles eventually subsided, the explosive cacophony of voices in my brain muffled and the violently throbbing blood vessels in my temples simmered down.

As I slowly breathed in and out, I refused to even consider what “Murphy” might possibly conjure up for me next.

I guess some things were better left unknown.



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