My name is Rob Blomo. At least according to the United States Postal Service it is. And don’t think I’m going to argue with them either. Hell, I’d sooner rip the tag off my mattress than go one-on-one with those guys.
I’m going to let you in on a little secret. Come close. Closer. I’m scared of the United States Postal Service. And you should be, too! Mailmen are powerful and all-knowing beings! They know what magazines you read, what credit cards you use, and (gulp) when your dentist sends you appointment reminders. You think I’m going to mess with them? Fuggedaboutit!
So Blomo it is. I guess there’s worse names I could’ve been stuck with, though. Boolm would be bad. So would Bmool and Blmoo. But still, if I was going to get a new last name, I wish I’d had more say in the decision.
My name change came two months ago when my wife, Juliana, and I moved to Philadelphia. And while the escapades of our bonehead movers have been well-documented in this column, I’ll just sum up the experience in one sentence: NOTHING WENT RIGHT.
The boneheads were MIA which meant all our stuff was MIA which meant we were this close from driving to the nearest Grenades R’ Us and maxing out our credit cards. But deep down — very deep down — we knew that blowing the boneheads to smithereens wasn’t the answer. Instead, we vowed to act like rational and mature adults, meaning we each threw a temper tantrum and then went out for beers. Surprisingly, we felt better. And that’s when Murphy got POed.
You see, Murphy is a ruthless snot. He knows when you’re waaaaaaaay past your daily tolerance of bonehead-ness and — BAM! —he strikes. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I give you the second Tuesday in June (aka "The Day from Hell"):
At the end of this miserable day, we came back to our apartment building and checked the mailbox. The good news was that our mail had been forwarded. The bad news was that a bright yellow sticker had been slapped on every piece of mail, proclaiming our new name: BLOMO.
The next day, I ran into our mailman when I was leaving the building. The dialogue you are about to read is completely accurate. I swear it, on my name.
MAILMAN: Hi, you must be Mr. Blomo.
ME: Yeah, hi. That’s something I wanted to talk to you about.
The building doorman, who incidentally does a fabulous job of guarding the building when he’s not dozing off, looks up from his desk.
DOORMAN: I thought yewse said yew was Bloom.
ME: Yes, that’s right. It is Bloom.
MAILMAN: That’s not what my records say, Mr. Blomo.
Mailman laughs. Doorman looks at me suspiciously.
DOORMAN: So which one is it, buddy?
ME: Bloom!
Another suspicious look from Doorman. Meanwhile four people wearing ski masks have just snuck behind him and are going into the elevator.
MAILMAN: Sorry. I gotta go by what the government tells me, Mr. Blomo.
ME: I’m not Blomo!
Doorman, now bored with this, goes back to sleep.
MAILMAN: So you’re telling me that you ain’t Blomo?
ME: Yes, that’s right! I’m Bloom!
MAILMAN: Well according to Federal Regulations, section 2.3023 ½, subsection C3PO, I can only deliver mail to the recipient whose name is on that mail. And you see here…
Mailman thrusts an envelope in my face. A bright yellow sticker on front says BLOMO. Over the sounds of Doorman’s snoring, I swear I hear Mailman giggling as he walks away.
So I’m Blomo, and apparently will be until the USPS changes their records. Man, I hate the… uh…I mean, I LOVE the Postal Service! LOVE LOVE LOVE! In fact, if there’s any mail-people out there, just take ALL THE TIME YOU NEED!!! And by the way, has anyone ever told you that the blue in your uniform REALLY brings out the grey in your socks? Oh, and that satchel goes great with your nose! And hey…have you lost weight?!?
Note to reader: As always, I welcome your feedback. If you have any comments or general praise, feel free to e-mail me at rob@robbloom.com. On the other hand, send all complaints, criticism, and dirty laundry to PO Box 21. Philadelphia, PA. Make sure you address it to Bloom.
© 2005 robbloom.com.
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