I had a bit of a freaky experience at the post office last week. I had a card in my PO box indicating that I had received a package that was too big to fit in the box. I took it up to the counter, and handed it to the postal worker. He smiled at me and headed for the back to get the package. “Robyn, right? Box 565?” he said without looking down at the card. People, I about jumped out of my skin and ran away screaming. I’ve always thought I enjoyed a bit of anonymity at the post office. Like, they’d see me and think “Oh yeah, it’s her. She comes in here all the time.” Madison’s a pretty big town – it’s not New York City, but it’s a big yuppieville suburb all the same – so I never expected that, even though I do go in there at least twice a week. But knowing my name? And knowing not only my name but also my box number? Honestly, that startled the shit out of me. All I could do was smile blankly and nod. “I like to memorize names and box numbers, it saves time,” he explained when he came back with my box. “You must have a good memory – that’s a lot of boxes to remember!” I said. And then today I went to the post office again. I stood in line, and when it was my turn, the postal worker – a completely different one this time, might I add – smiled and waved at me. “Come on over, Miz And3rson!” he called. I think I’m going to have to move. (No, not really. It’s just weird, because I’m not used to it.)

Spanky sleeps soundly, unaware that his arch-nemesis inches ever closer. Will he wake in time to shoot a disgusted look over his shoulder and run away, or will he awaken to find himself Fancified?]]>