I love email.

I love that you can be all casual and quick. Just whip out a fast reply and send it off without another thought. You don’t have to make a production of it. Email keeps me in contact with people that I might never talk to otherwise. It keeps me from ever needing to pick up my lifelong nemesis- the phone. With email, the phone is redundant.

But the real love of my life is snail mail. I love it for all the opposite reasons. You have to think about real mail. You have to find addresses and stamps. You have to sit down and consider what you are about to send. This mail isn’t going to disappear into the internets. This is real. Someone is going to open their mailbox and read this in their living room with a cup of coffee. This is Important. Normally the only mail I get in my mail box is bills or has my name preceded by something about CARROT sorting. Junk. I don’t even bother opening most of it. I just throw it into the fireplace and forget about it.

So on Friday when I came home from a shopping spree in Visalia  and found my mailbox overflowing I got a little giddy. My mail box was full. Not just full, stuffed! Stuffed with real mail!

I had to tug the biggest box so hard that I thought I would pull a muscle. The Husband looked a little disgusted by the glee in my face over this prospect.

“Oh god- what did you order from Pennsylvania?” He muttered.

Nothing! I ordered nothing from Pennsylvania. Someone lovely decided to send me cookies just because.

Whee! Then came the Christmas cards. Then the book I ordered last week. A whole mail box full of mail that I didn’t have to throw away! Is there anything better?

No. No there is not.