The UPS Man Who Delivers More Than The Goods
Monday, February 15, 2010

The other day, I was in my black hole, (the laundry room), working on the never-freakin-ending laundry, the soul-killing bane of my existence, when I came upon a ball-point pen mark on one of my favorite shirts. 

I immediately thought, "I wonder what time the UPS truck will be here?"

And just so you know, The King of Queens is not my deliveryman. Although, that sure could be some great fun if it were the case.

Anyway, here's the thing:

We get a lot of deliveries around this place. A LOT. 

Between the wine shipments and the shopping boy's addictions, we have developed a deep and abiding relationship with our UPS man. 

He is a stellar man who takes his job above and beyond The Brown. He's learned through our years together that wine is a fussy mistress and doesn't take well to heat. And because of that, he knows my regular schedule, when I'm home and when I'm out. Since an over-21 signature is required for all wine, this can sometimes be a tricky dance. 

He even calls my cell if I'm off my routine and not home when he knocks. 

He has generously rendezvoused with me at a mutual location to deliver the goods a few times over. 

The wine. I'm talking about the wine, Internet. 

He makes a point to meet me with my wine, so that it doesn't get sent back to some overheated warehouse. That's the kind of special he is. 

But, on top of keeping me wine-happy, the man is a veritable encyclopedia of knowledge in brown shorts. I rarely have to Google anymore. I just wait for my UPS man to knock on the door. 

He suggested dabbing a little rubbing alcohol with a clean white cloth and then treating it with Oxyclean. 

My shirt has never looked better. 

And it's not just laundry. He has counseled me on many an issue and never steered me wrong. 

A few weeks ago, Julia had some Spanish homework that had me stumped. Truth be told, I'm absolutely no help unless her homework entails your basic 12-year-old boy's repertoire of Spanish profanities or the phrase, "Abra la ventana, por favor." 

The phrase, "Open the window please" is strangely, the only thing I retained from my high school Spanish class. 

So, we are SET if we're traveling in a Spanish-speaking country and the room is stuffy or I need to tell someone to kiss my ass. Then, I'm all over it, man. 

But, my Mr. Brown absolutely knew the gender of each one of those Spanish words. Of course, Latin countries WOULD sex up their words with male and female roles. They sex up everything they can find in those hot-blooded countries, even proper grammar.

A few years back, I developed a rash on my forearm. Ugly red, bumpy welts ran all the way up my elbow. I was sure it was leprosy and I walked around just waiting for my arm to fall off. But my UPS man took one look and declared it contact dermatitis. 

I told my doctor my UPS man had already diagnosed it as contact dermatitis and my doctor said, "Well, your UPS man knows what he's talking about when it comes to rashes."

Rashes and everything else in the universe.

The Dude is an overflowing fountain of useful information. I can't tell you how many conversations I have that start with, "Well, my UPS man says . . . "

He knew what varmint was eating the grapefruits off my grapefruit tree, (fruit rats) and what kind of trap works best. With one whiff of my pot roast, he suggested I add more red wine and Herbs de Provence. It turned out to be my most succulent pot roast ever. He is the only person I know that can discuss Dylan Thomas with me and agrees that the line, "After the first death, there is no other" is about as perfect as writing gets. He can name the presidents in sequential order and he knows the name of every single bird that dwells on my lake, even correcting me on the fact that the quackers out there are not ducks, but ducks and drakes. I had no idea that only females are ducks. 

He tipped off my hubby to the best spot in the country for catching big-mouthed bass. (And don't ask me where it is, because my eyes glaze over and my hearing shuts down with talk of such stuff.) He even helped my hubby unclog something with something in one of his guns. (Again, I shut down.) The two of them have lively conversations over their mutual impressive knowledge of all things shooting. 

He gave me his top-secret Brie and Fugi Apple Quesadilla recipe which is to DIE for and long before Stacy and Clinton declared it so, he informed me it was now fashionable to wear silver and gold pieces together. He knew why my front yard topiaries were dead at the bottom when my landscaper didn't have a clue: All the male dogs in our neck of the woods who found topiaries to be a close second when there's no fire hydrant to be found. 

He has correctly predicted every American Idol winner in the last 3 seasons. He can name every Osmond Brother including the deaf ones and fat Jimmy and like me, he can recite every single word to Bobby Sherman's "Little Woman." Don't even bother asking how that one came up. 

He knows the best way to get rid of hard water stains and he also knows the exact location of the duodenum in the human body. Once again, this post is long enough, we won't go into the details. 

He reassured me on the whole swine flu vaccine, peppering me with facts and shooting down all the urban myths that were out there, until he convinced me to inoculate my girls with the nasal vaccine.

He's a big fan of Jeffrey Sach's macroeconomics and global development theories. Once again, it's like I'm listening to Charlie Brown's teacher when Mr. UPS is schooling me on macroeconomics. Wah-wah-wah-wah-wah-wah-wah. It's not my idea of great conversation fodder. 

Althoughhhh . . . Bono is a big advocate of all that juju, blaa-blaa economic/development crap and if Bono were to ever have a conversation with me, (God and all the saints willing), I would be all, "OMG, I TOTALLY LOVE macroeconomics so very, very much."

Here's a picture my friend Mary made, HI MARY, with the help of Face in the Hole. And yes that is me in Bono's wife's head, but most days as I'm staring at it, I just pretend that it IS me all wrapped up in Bono's arms and he's planting a big, juicy one on MY cheek, with that scruffy face and sexy mouth. (As she sighs and lingers, staring at the picture, wantonly.)

Mr. UPS agrees with me that Quentin Tarantino is overrated and covers up his lack of plot lines with gratuitous violence. And my Mr. Brown adjusted my camera to the perfect shutter speed for snapping puppies in cracked-out crazy mode and speaking of puppies . . . 

He is my dog whisperer. 

He has guided me through the tricky paths of dogdom; Giving me tips on Miss Paris Hilton when she was a young pup; making sure I was doing everything right during her pregnancy; going through my whelping list with me over and over again and mentoring me through the trials of mothering 2 puppies. 

I swung the door open the other day and said, "The potty training is going to kill me here! These crapheads aren't getting it!"

He calmed me immediately as he put my wine shipment away, (he knows exactly where it goes),  reminding me that 11-week old puppies were the equivalent of a 4-month old baby and that I was expecting entirely too much too soon brought on by the fact that I've had them since the day they were born, thus erroneously assuming that they were more capable than they really are at this age of doing anything but being 11-week old pain in the ass puppies. Then, he gave me a good homemade cleaning solution for pet stains. 

Today, I'm going to ask him what the universal secret is to teaching husbands how to place their underwear in the hamper. I know he'll have the answer. 

Today's Definite Download: Tift Merritt's "Good-Hearted Man." Man, this is just one soulful, kick-ass song filled with big horns and a gospel chorus. It's like a throwback to old Elvis, Memphis-like sound. 

Oh and I'm grateful grateful
Got to say thank you to a good hearted man 

To my Mr. Brown who gives me all his answers. I can't wait to find out about the underwear. 



Lisa said...

Hooray, you're back!! I have been anxiously awaiting the next installment of Laundry.....

I am jealous of your UPS guy. Do you think he might be willing to expand his territory to up here? Although, I don't need one to deliver the wine - my hubby does that for me (from France). Speaking of wine - you mentioned my number one cooking tip: add wine! (and by the way, I am a pretty darm good cook!) Spaghetti sauce taste a little bland? Add a little (or a lot) or red wine. Soup? Wine. Pot roast? Ditto. In my experience, there is very little that cannot be improved with a generous dollop of red wine. Including the cook.

Paula said...

Your UPS guy sounds great! Unless he's actually Cliff Claven.

Joann Mannix said...

Paula, he could be just a little Cliff, except better looking. But, he definitely knows a little somethin' somethin' about everything.

And I'm jealous Lisa, of the hand-delivered French wine and you're on the money about cooking with it. I put it in freakin everything!

Aunt Becky said...

I need to hang out with your UPS guy NOW.

ProudSister said...

I'm jealous too. Mine just drops the package, rings and runs. Sort of weird that you know he knows all of this stuff. Maybe I'll hide by my door next time I have a package coming, whip the door open, and quiz my guy on what he knows.

Tiffaney said...

OMG IS HE MARRIED??? *Ahem.* What I meant to say is, surely a well mannered and intelligent gentleman caller such as he must be married? (did I recover well, or what)

Tiffaney said...

OMG IS HE MARRIED??? *Ahem.* What I meant to say is, surely a well mannered and intelligent gentleman caller such as he must be married? (did I recover well, or what)

Joann Mannix said...

Sorry Tiffaney! He is married. And not to rub salt in wounds or anything, but he gushes when he speaks of her. He's a pretty darn good guy and a top notch delivery man.

Terraplane said...

Wow. I thought our UPS dude was awesome, what with delivering the goods and leaving treats for the pappies. But wow. Your guy is like the college professor of UPS guys.

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