You've Got Mail

J-Fed's mail is coming to my house once again. When I saw the first piece of mail, a cold wave of nausea washed over me. It's as if I went back in time for a moment, and we were married all over again. My mouth went dry. I could hear my heart pounding in my head. I ran around my house frantically, making sure it wasn't some bad dream. I checked the closets. I looked under the beds. I did everything I could to make sure that my divorce had really happened, and that the boogie man didn't live here anymore.

After finding no signs of him -- empty Frappuccino bottles, cigarette butts, laundry on the floor, etc. -- I realized that he was still gone and I was still free of the unmerciful ball and chain. I thanked God and went about my business... until the next day. And the day after. And the day after that. Sure enough, his mail was coming here again. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that more than likely J-Fed had only gotten a temporary address change when he moved out last February.

Well, there was nothing temporary about our divorce. So he needed to get to steppin and change his address PERMANENTLY.

You know, if it were nine months ago, back when we were still getting along, I'd likely have handed him his mail in a gift-wrapped package sealed with a kiss. I probably would have shed a tear or two while asking him if we were ever going to get back together. Well, that was then, and this is now. I'd rather shove the mail up his...

You get the picture. Since I really don't feel that I'm qualified to be a post mistress, I'm not comfortable handling his mail. I thought long and hard about the best way to handle this. I could tell him to go to the post office and fix it, but that might give him the wrong impression, the impression that I cared. And I don't. I could just throw his mail away, but that's not cool or legal. I could leave it in a pile and give it to him when he picks up the kids, but that left room for dialogue, the last thing I wanted to have with him.