Mailbox Sitting

So yesterday the phone rang and it was Wolfgang. For those of you who don't know, Wolfgang is my neighbor. He lives on the floor above us. He's also been a friend of our for years but this year he broke up with his wife of eighteen years in what can be described as a classic midlife crisis. No Porsche purchase because he can barely afford to put gas in that P.O.S. Escort wagon he drives but it's a midlife crisis nevertheless. This is why Wolfgang now lives in our apartment building, and much to our chagrin, may I add, because he's bad to drop in without warning to tell us some incredibly boring story about his new-hip-single-dude life or to ask us a question about his computer - usually the same question he's asked six times before.

Here's my favorite thing of his that he does. Wolfgang will call our phone - a regular landline phone - and when B answers he'll say "Hey dude, are you home?"

Wolfgang, B's a quadriplegic and you've called our home phone. Think about the question you've just asked!

Anyway, he's at least finally learned to make every effort to call because he's the world's worst to drop in when I'm napping, in the middle of cooking, up to my elbows in toilet bowl scrubbing or the like. He wanted to come down for a moment to ask us something (why this couldn't be done on the phone is beyond me) and a few minutes later he showed up - filthy and paint covered. He's a painter so being filthy and paint covered is expected. His sister has gone on vacation to Bangkok for two weeks and Wolfgang is housesitting and maintaining five zillion birds and fish she's got there. He had mentioned this previously so it didn't come as any surprise and I had assumed that he would come by here every couple days to check on things here.

And he is going to do that...except he's asked me to pick up his mail while he's gone.

Let me get this right. You're coming back every two days anyway and you want me to pick up your mail? Where's the logic in that, Wolfgang?

What's he expecting? Checks coming in by the dozen? Letters from single women who happen to be looking for a tall, balding housepainter to date?

Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding! Yep, it hit me. I'm betting dollars to doughnuts that he's got some personal ads in some newspaper or online thingy and he's expecting a flood of letters and he doesn't want to chance missing one.

So not only do I have to pick up my mother-in-law's mail and my own mail but I have to get Wolfgang's collection of love correspondance.

Makes me want to see if I can still steam open an envelope. Nah. That would be bad. Amusing, but bad.