George Clooney’s Post Office

I have just returned to my big, manly, comfortable, black leather poppa chair in my living room after a dog-gone interesting trip to the post office. You always hear about “dis-gruntled postal employees” doing something weird or even nasty. Like shooting a president. But the lady who runs the local post office…we’ll call her Mary Pat Susan which is only partly her real name because I don’t want her to get in trouble for this in case the NSA or the lords of the postal service are listening and they don’t like what she’s doing. I figure that if there are dis-gruntled postal workers, there must be gruntled postal workers. And Mary Pat Susan must be the queen of the gruntled postal workers. Therefore every so often, I bring her my Gruntled Postal Service Workers Award…usually some peanuts or M&Ms or a picture of George Clooney. She seems to like George Clooney. I have no idea why. Must be his personality. M.P.S. always seems to have the Gratitude-Attitude that I talk about in my book, Staying Happy Healthy And Hot, even though I know she’s been going through some tough times lately. She is a wonderful, warm and welcoming lady who has become a real friend to my Lady Wonder Wench and me.

Mary Pat Susan is a dog lover. Big time. She recently got an Irish Setter puppy, who has grown in the last few months into a very good looking young dog. And he seems to know how good looking he is. He frequently goes to work with Susan and has taken to striking a George Clooney like pose, as if inviting someone to take his picture to put on the next first class stamp. Every woman who comes into the post office immediately starts making mommy sounds that often end in one of two statements, either…”Ohh isn’t he cuuute,” (three or four u-s in the word cute) or “Look how big he’s gotten.”

M.P.S. calls her dog, “Shamrock.” But I’ve been trying to get her to change the dog’s name to Dick, because given our current silly state of political correctness I think the name Dick would put such a different meaning on the women’s comments…”Ohh isn’t he cuuute,” or “Look how big he’s gotten.” I know…like many Louie Louie Generation guys, I do lack a certain level of maturity. I told Mary Pat Susan the dog I had as a kid was a mutt named Whistle, and he had a flat nose from chasing parked cars, and she actually laughed instead of threatening to crush my male box.

My Lady Wonder Wench has been dropping subtle hints about getting a dog lately. Hints like, “Why don’t we get a dog?” In fact, there is a chapter in my book Staying Happy Healthy And Hot called Dog Gone, that explains my position on dogs pretty well.

On page 52 it says:

“Now, I realize that what I am about to say will put me high up on any decent person’s list of surly, soulless, scoundrels. But I don’t want a dog in my life right now. I also realize that statements like that cause a great many—mostly unnecessary—fatal fights between men and women. And I understand that one of the things my Lady Wonder Wench is thinking now is “If I throw a stick, will he run after it—and just keep running?” Please don’t misunderstand. I like dogs. I just don’t like dog poop, dog hair, and the dog-gone hassle of taking walks in the snow looking for fire hydrants and trees. I am not really a terrible person for not wanting a dog in my life right now. I may be a terrible person, but not for that reason. I’ve just been a highly responsible guy all my life. And now, four out of the five voices in my head are telling me it’s time I let the little kid inside me out to play. Just me and my Lady W.W.” 

Dick’s Details…a bunch of totally un-important stuff for you to stuff in one ear, so you can squeeze the important stuff that’s bothering you out the other ear, and you can get comfortable.

TV stuff tonight. The tax on the supposedly free cars Oprah gave away to the studio audience that day was $7,000, which is why some people said “Up Oprah’s” According to Johnny Carson, if the answer was Rub a dub dub do you know what the question was? Of course you don’t I haven’t told you yet. I will in a minute. 18 Star Trek conventions are held around the world every year. And that’s just this world. This is just kind of nice, the inscription on Jackie Gleason’s grave stone is “And away we go.” He was a hugely talented musician as well as being a world class comedian. Oh yes. According to Johnny Carson, If you’re a member of the Louie Louie Generation you remember Johnny Carson…according to Johnny Carson if the answer is rub a dub dub, the question is what does a masseuse do to your dub dub. How about if the answer is Camelot, the question is where do Arabs park their camels. I miss Johnny Carson. My favorite was if the answer is sis boom bah, the question is what’s the sound an exploding sheep makes. As I said, I miss Mr. Carson.

Dick’s Details. They take your mind off your mind.

So how come police dogs don’t have to wear a badge. And cats never have to work. Most Louie Louie Generation guys don’t care much for cats, but we get along pretty well with dogs. Proud Podcast Participant Bruce From Georgia sent a note that said: “The only circumstances under which it’s OK for a man to cry are” 1- When an heroic dog dies to save its master. 2- When Angelina Jolie starts un-buttoning her blouse. 3- When wrecking your boss’ car.” I have often wondered why the Beatles sang, “It’s been a hard day’s night, and I’ve been working like a dog.” My dog Whistle’s work day consisted mostly of hanging around the house waiting for me to come home to bark at me so I’d take him out to mark his territory on some parked car. I’m pretty sure he considered parking meters to be his personal pay toilets. I could never figure out why when I took him for a ride in the car, he’d always stick his head out the window. But if you blew in his face, he’d get mad at you. You know how you sometimes walk into a room and forget why you walked in ? I think that’s pretty much how Whistle spent his life.

Unlike Whistle, some dogs work of course. Firefighters have Dalmations. Probably to help them find fire hydrants. And there are bomb sniffing dogs. You see one of them running, better run right along with him. Some dogs… like most poodles… are just for dog shows, or walks down Fifth Avenue in your mink coat. And I wonder if other dogs look at poodles and think they must be members of some weird religious cult. One of our daughters raised show dogs, and one day our granddaughter Erin called on the phone and you could practically see her jumping up and down with all the excitement only a 6 year old kid can muster, and she screamed, “Poppa, Nana, we won best bitch.” Don’t you just love seeing little kids so excited that they scream laughing and jump up and down? And isn’t it just awful to see a little kid crying quietly…not screaming or pouting…just quietly crying. 

What an experience it has been to see our daughters and now our granddaughters grow up…through all those laughs and tears. When little Erin called…so excited…I couldn’t help wonder what my Lady Wonder Wench was like when she was little. There’s a story about that in my Bedtime Stories spoken word CD.( www.dicksummer.comI know she had braids, and she wore glasses, and home-made dresses. Things were tough for her family in those days. She lived in a cold water flat in Boston. The winters are cold in Boston. The only heat was from the kitchen stove. Any time she talks about it she simply says, “That’s just the way it was.” No tears. But the one memory that still gets her a little misty was that she couldn’t swap lunch sandwiches with the other kids in school, because she only had butter bread sandwiches. Funny isn’t it…that such a long ago little thing can still make the little girl inside her shed some very big girl tears. 

The story is called Tears. It’s from my Bedtime Stories spoken word CD. If you like it, you can just keep the current podcast. Or if you want a fresh copy just check out the Bedtime Stories icon on the home page. 

What Einstein was to physics. What Hank Aaron was to home runs. What Edward G. Robinson was to dying like a dirty rat…that’s what Mary Pat Susan is to Gruntled Postal Workers. She didn’t throw me out when I told her about the cowboy who bought a dachshund because everybody told him he should get a long little doggie. Or when I tried to get her to change her dog’s name to Dick…because she understands that my evil mind is my solace forever. She even didn’t throw me out when I asked her if she had a mutt named Spot, and she spilled some spot remover on him, would he disappear.

She did get a little upset when I told her I bought my Lady Wonder Wench a dog, and she found out it was a mechanical dog that talks, and you don’t have to feed it, or walk it, or take it to the vet…all you have to do is change his batteries. Listen to the current podcast. He even tells jokes. 

Mary Pat Susan does much more than cancel stamps at her job. She always has hand drawn pictures of snow men and sleds on the window at Christmas, and lollypops and little games for the kids every day, and a long time ago she had a warm and welcoming smile for my Lady and me when we first moved here and didn’t know anybody. Suddenly we weren’t strangers any more because of her. And we found out that it was she, who put the balloons up in our driveway when my Lady came home from the hospital after her terrible accident a few years ago. I know she listens to these podcasts. So I hope this podcast will be just a little surprise for her. I want her to know that she’s a lot more special than just being the winner of my silly gruntled postal worker peanuts and M&Ms award. She’s having a tough time right now. 

Funny  thing about podcasts. You never know who’s listening. I doubt if George Clooney is connected right now, but maybe somebody who knows somebody who knows Mr. Clooney might get in touch with him. Mary Pat Susan is having a tough time right now, and as Big Louie always says…you never know when something wonderful is going to happen. So maybe somebody listening could find a way to get George to either drop in on her post office, or send his limo to pick her up and take her to his private jet, to have dinner with her. Hey. You never know.

One Response to “George Clooney’s Post Office”

  1. Bob says:

    I would like to add one more time when it is OK for a man to cry….when he is faced with the choice of putting down his dog or continuing to try to keep him alive. I was forced to make that decision at the ripe old age of 17. My dog, Mr. Wags, who at that point in time, was with me for 14 of my 17 years on this planet. He was approaching the end of his life. He was our family dog and did everything we did. Camping, swimming, playing and somethimes just sitting with his head in your lap. Somehow I knew that he something was “up”. My dad, a retired Westchester County Firefighter and my mom left NY to look for a place to retire. I was left at home to work and care for my dog. I was walking Wags one warm afternoon ,and after he did his business, he came up and sat down next to my leg. Looked up at me and with his gray peppered muzzle, kind of smiled. If a dog can smile that is. He laid down and just closed his eyes. Almost as if he knew that we, his family, would be leaving to live somewhere else and he would not. I had to pick up my friend, put him in my ’67 Chevy Belair Station wagon and drive him to the vet. (this was 1977). The vet told me my options and they were, 1 I could try some new drugs that might ease his discomfort but in reality euthansia was the vets reccommendation. So there I was faced with that decision and no easy way to call my parents. They were somewhere in the State of Maine signing papers on their retirement house and I was at the vets. Remember in 1977 cell phones really did not exist and radio telephones were expensive!
    So I cried and told the vet to put Mr. Wags out of his misery.