During the course of one week’s time, I receive a dozen pieces of mail that aren’t worth the postage they’re printed on.
With stamps approaching 50 cents, that may not be saying very much. One charitable organization even includes a shiny dime as an incentive to donate. Talk about bribery! They’re paying me to pay them. The ones addressed to simply “occupant” quickly find their way to the disposal.
I get bulletins from the Turkish Embassy, invitations to invest into my future as a retiree, and notices that I’ve become eligible to win a million bucks from book publishing firms.
From time to time, I open them to see what I’ve been missing. It isn’t much. The same charities are looking for money. The same insurance salesmen are beating my brow to buy more coverage. If I wanted more key chains and other trinkets, I’d go to a novelty shop.
Now, one or two of these insurance companies are reaching out with offers for burial insurance, unaware that I’m perfectly covered through other policies. I wrote one company back and said, “Sorry, I’ve elected to get cremated.”
Another credit card offer and I’ll leave home without any. I carry no wallet and have no plastic on my person. Not because I’m fearful of theft. It’s just that I believe in paying for my goods by cash. I’m into a lot of things but debt isn’t one of them.
Truth be told, I happen to be a sucker for charity. This past week, I responded to the National Wildlife Federation, Disabled American Veterans, Cancer Society, my usual quota of Armenian causes, and the Home for Little Wanderers. The latter one melted my heart. I couldn’t resist the photograph of a bright-eyed youngster on the cover. It could have been my grandchild.
I must have received this benevolent bone from my sainted grandmother who couldn’t resist the opportunity to send money in the mail. I’d love to have a dollar for every one she gave up.
I usually can’t wait for the postal carrier to deliver the mail. Not that I welcome the host of bills he may bring along. But there’s always that element of surprise in opening my mailbox and not knowing what I’d find in today’s delivery.
It could be another offer for land in the Florida Everglades. Or a pitch to save the whales. I’m so busy saving life around me that often, I forget about myself.
When the urge dictates, into the envelope goes a crisp $5 bill after perusing my kitchen to make sure nobody’s watching. In return, I get sheets of address labels. I’m still using my Christmas collection and cannot wait to greet my spring motif. The mere thought of it erases the winter’s chill.
My dilemma is this. How come I’m on everybody’s mailing list? My address and e-mail never get advertised, not if I can help it.
The other day, I ripped open a letter informing me that I was about to win “the grand prize.”
“Congratulations! You have just won your choice of an entertainment center, large screen TV, or a Canon XTI camera. All you have to do is show up at Sleepy Hollow Resort and claim your gift.”
I called their bluff, determined to expose this charade and claim my prize. Well, let me tell you, it would have been easier six fathoms under the ocean with a shark tailgating me. But with my wallet still intact, I managed to escape with the consolation prize—a dinner-for-two at a fast food restaurant.
Anyway, the gods cursed me with an uncomplimentary cold last week and I was in no mood to do much of anything, least of all open junk mail. But one package caught my eye from—of all people—Sneeze-its, the cold-medicine people.
They informed me that the average American adult will catch at least two colds a year. It translates into about 30 million lost work days, not to mention the days people try to function at work with cold symptoms.
For us retired guys, no telling how many days we might miss on the golf course or on cruise ships. Fair to say, the only thing people do for a cold is sneeze.
Included in the kit was one cold-o-meter, the world sneezer’s guide and a pair of throat socks.
The cold-o-meter came equipped with pictures of cucumber, lemon, strawberry, rose, and anchovy pizza.
“Just scratch and sniff,” the instructions read. “When you can correctly identify all five fragrances, consider yourself cured.”
All I got from this batch of junk was indigestion to go with my headache.
Tom Vartabedian
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