an·thro·po·mor·phism
[ˌanTHrəpəˈmôrfizəm]

NOUN

the attribution of human characteristics or behavior to a god, animal, or object.

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Our HOA decided a long time ago that everyone has to conform to the style of mailbox they chose many years ago.  They are regulatory USPS metal mailboxes that have been housed in a house.  Seriously.  They are placed inside stupid, wooden house-shaped structures so they end up looking like a bird house on a pole in front of each and every house in our neighborhood.  Also, they must be painted one of only two acceptable colors; beige and a different beige.

Whenever a mailbox shows signs of wear, whether it be peeling paint or structural neglect, they send out a nasty-gram reminding us of our obligation to maintain these ridiculous-looking doll houses to their standards.  Handily, the edict includes a phone number of the person you can contact if you need to replace it altogether.  I don’t remember the price but I do remember it was enough for me to declare “Fuck that!  I’ll repair it myself.”

I won’t bore you with the details of everything that went wrong, including the hammer blow to my own knuckle, the wasp bite, the worn thread that necessitated me sawing the hell out of the screw, finding that the metal box was rusted and had to be replaced, or the wooden slat that cracked in half while being screwed onto the new metal door and had to be glued amid profane declarations.  This 1 hour project turned into a 2 day festival of fits and cussing.

During the full blown renovation, I found the remnants of what appeared to be an old bird’s nest.  I pulled out the twigs, dried grass, and string.  I was shocked at how much was packed in there.  More shocking were the three tiny eggs that rolled out and cracked onto the pavement.  I  was completely disheartened to realize that the nest was actually currently occupied. 

For the next two weeks, every time I backed out the garage, I found the hysterical parents fluttering around the mailbox frantically searching for their eggs.  I guiltily endured their angry tweets (chirps not social media updates) as they sat on the mailbox across the street and glared at me.  I yelled “Sorry!” each time I sheepishly retrieved my mail and hoped that they would not berate me.  Those little birds were ruthless and unforgiving!  My profanity was nothing compared to what those puffy little sparrows spewed at me in a daily basis.  

This spring, there is a new nest and activity around my ugly mailbox.  

The mail can wait.