The Feds

I don't like to break laws. And typically, I don't. I always wear my seatbelt. I've never done an illegal drug in my life (I didn't even do drugs in Amsterdam!). And I think having to survive a two and a half hour amtrak ride to Chicago after drinking too much Smirnoff Raspberry and puking in both a sink and behind a tree at various points in the early morning when I was 18 was more punishment than even the great American legal system can give me. However, recently I was forced to lie. In a designated government building. By my own mother.

To being with, my mom has a problem with mail. I don't know whether it is some weird sense of entitlement or she's just crazy, but for some reason she really likes getting the mail. Lately, I have been ordering textbooks from amazon so I have been checking the mail pretty regularly. At around 3p.m. I peek my head outside the front door, open the mailbox, and collect the mail and my packages. The first thing I hear when I shut the front door is "Can I have the mail?!" Granted, this is my parent's house, they do pay the bills, and most of the mail is for them, but the fact that my mother has trouble even waiting for me to read the addressee on the enevelope without acting like a kid waiting to open her presents on Christmas is disturbing. Frequently, at around 3 p.m. I can hear my mother yell from the living room or kitchen to my room "Hey Rose? You got some mail...Can I open it?" This question comes in various ways and with various intros:"You got a letter from Dominican...Can I open it," "You got a package...It's from somewhere in Kansas? Can I open it?" "Hey, you got something, I think it's a book? Is it for school? Can I open it?" "Hey, you wanna come get your mail? I'll look at it and tell you what it is if you're busy!" "There's something for you from Bank of America. I might need to read this... school loans and all that, you know."

Once, I came home from class to find an message on my voicemail:
"Ashley, this is mom. Hey, you got something in the mail today, I was just wondering if you wanted me to open it. Well, call me back. Love you, Bye."
So of course I called back.
"No, mom. Just leave it on my bed and I'll open it when I get home this weekend." But funnily enough, when I returned home that weekend, I found my credit card bill opened on my bed. "Mom, I thought I told you not to open this."
"Well I wasn't sure, I thought it might have been mine. I opened it without looking..."
"Then why did you call and ask me if you could open it? Why would you leave a voicemail asking me if you could open my mail if you thought it was yours?'
Silence
"Well...I thought...Well..."
Silence
"You do realize that opening mail addressed to someone else is a federal offense"
"Ok, I had already opened it when I called you and I was hoping that you would say it was ok for me to open it and then it wouldn't matter, but you didn't. You didn't....I opened....It's my damn house!"

But my favorite, the one I heard just today, goes a little something like this:

sound of screen door shutting and front door being pushed into place.
"Hey Rose?"
"Yeah?"
"You got something in the mail"
quick slice of letter opener and sound of papers rustling"
"It's your bank statement!"
"Then why do I hear you opening it?"
"Well...."

This has been going on in various forms probably since I started receiving mail. However, lately it has become a bigger problem. I am forced by law to be an adult and in doing so receive my own mail that has nothing to do with my mother. The fact that she feels the need to open my mail, including my credit card bill pisses me off. It also invades my privacy, what I do with my money is my business. And though the most interesting thing ever charged on my credit card so far has been a box of tampons in the Hong Kong international airport. What if I wanted to order a dildo off the internet? Anway, it's just not right. Which brings me to the incident.

I'm in front of the fridge when my mom comes in the kitchen and asks for carpenter's glue. She has an opened package in her hand. "I'm sending this back," she says. "I need to glue the package back together because if you opened it they make you pay for postage," she says frowning over her task. "Well, why did you open it then?" "Because, I had to open it so I could see if I wanted it or not," she sighs in a 'no duh' tone. "It" being a cookbook from the Cooking Club of America, was to be taken back to the post office the next day by me. Before I leave to go to the post office she says, "don't tell them we opened it, then we'll have to pay." Don't let the fact that my mother asks me to lie to federal workers disturb you. This is the same women who let me scratch off lottery tickets when I was a kid, only succumbing to her higher moral standards when I won $1,000 on an instant ticket ("Rosie, you can't have that money! It's illegal for kids to gamble!")

Anyway, I go to the post office. A place I absolutely hate going to: it makes me extremely nervous for some reason, it also smells like glue and everyone always seems to be in a hurry. But today it was just me and coincidentally my mother's older sister in the office. She was mailing a letter using only two cent stamps which covered most of the envelope ("I might as well use them!") Maybe it runs in the family. Anywho, I give the post office lady the letters I have to mail, then quietly say, "This is to be sent back." She looks at the package and thankfully my mother's glue has stuck. "Did you open this?" she asks. For a split second I fear she's on to me. Somehow the federal government has created a postal fembot capable of knowing when someone is trying to get out of paying postage. I feel my face turn hot and I quickly mumble "No, I didn't open it," hoping the quick and subtle emphasis will at once profess my innocence and assuage my guilty conscience. "Ok then," she smiles "we'll just write return on this and send it back." She looks directly at me, "that way you won't have to pay postage." I smile, say thank you, and quickly leave the office. As I walk, I breathe deeply. The air is warm and I can feel myself sweating as I try to stop myself from walking too quickly across the parking lot. I get behind the wheel and tell myself I didn't lie. Not technically. But I can not dwell on my brush with potential criminality for long. I have other things to do. I slowly pull out of the parking lot, eyes brimming with laughter at myself in the rearview mirror, and head in the direction of the library to return some light summer reading. On time, of course.