August 2002: Dog-Fearing Delivery People

One thing that's always surprised me about Brooklyn is how wimpy a lot of people are who come to your door. And I mean everyone from meter readers to mail people to cable repairpeople. Wimpy actually doesn't even begin to describe some of them--lily-livered-yellow-bellied chickens is more on target. So since I'm home during the day now, I decided to have some fun with them. Okay, get a picture of me in your mind's eye of me in this outfit: long white Kamikaze-like white cotton headband with a rising sun painted on the front, cobalt-blue round real glass safety glasses from the 40s, (they're really welding glasses), my father's old bright-orange flight suit that's way too big on me, and flowered Doc high-top 8-hole boots. If YOU came to my door and I answered dressed like that, what would you do?

I should add that some days I also have paint on my face, and when that happens I try to make it look like I put it there on purpose. You know, like football players and Maori warriors.

Well, let me tell you, the reactions are pretty damn funny. There are basically four different ones:

God knows what'd happen if they could see my tattoos. They're not scary or anything, they're really cool--just ask anyone who's seen them. It'd just be the girl with tattoos thing that'd probably scare them.

My feeling is that if you have an occupation that requires you to either go to people's doors or go inside their houses--especially in Brooklyn (even in my noxious, newly chic and fabulous, slacker and French people filled neighborhood)--you better be pretty damn brave. Or at the very least not be afraid of dogs, cats, or the dark. I have actually had big, huge men come into the house say to me, "do you have dogs?" And I'm like, "Yeah, so?" And what I really want to say is, "Yeah, so, you dope, and do you think I'd let you in here if they were going to chew your arms off? Because at the very least, that'd make a huge mess I'd have to clean up and I HATE to clean."

So then they say, "can you put them away?" And I'm like, "They're dachshunds." And they still ask, "Could you put them away?" I reply, "Are you freakin' serious? They're dachshunds--the only dog shaped like poop, and their legs are six inches long. Do you think they're going to bite your ankles? " Again, what I really want to say is, "Give me a break, Mary. You are such a huge F-A-G fag." (Don't send me e-mails about calling them fags, either. I'm a dyke, I can do that, and if you don't think it's politically correct just bite me.) Now I could understand if someone saw Molly and asked me to put her away. I actually DO always lock her upstairs if someone has to come into the house. But she's a black dog who's larger than a miniature horse, and who barks at strangers and hates black men wearing caps. (She came that way; don't have a clue.)

But how on earth could you look at two sweet (yeah, right) little dachshunds or fat cats lying around like third base and have the nerve to ask, "Could you put them away?" Don't the companies they work for screen these people? I know I've had to hire people for a lot of different positions back when I was gainfully employed, and if the major part of a job was going into people's houses, I think one of my first questions would be, "You're not afraid of animals or people or really shy or jumpy or anything like Don Knotts in "The Incredible Mr. Limpet," are you?"

And don't even get me started on how they always leave your doors open when they come in and out of the house. And I've never been able to figure out why--whether you had pets that could run out or not, if you come in and a door is closed, you close it behind you, the end. Do they leave THEIR front doors open all the time? I tend to doubt that.

Sure, you can have job that requires you to go into someone's house but be afraid of dogs, or cats, or people dressed a little out of the ordinary, but I'm freakin' unemployed. (Not only that, I was "eliminated." Actually, my position was eliminated, but since I was the only one IN my position, I like saying I was eliminated; it's more dramatic.) Not that I want a job as a meter reader or package deliverer; I don't. Saying all this just gave me another excuse to whine. Not that I've ever needed an excuse. . .