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Fig. 219

The Countess

Origin: Foie gras, canned meat, asparagus

Culprit: Aristocrats, porn stars, pirates

Habitat: High seas, dressing rooms, wine tastings, first class, on location in San Fernando Valley

Fig. 459

The Zipper

Origin: Protein bars, excessive amounts of pork products

Culprit: Rock climbers, ex-boyfriends, trapped miners

Habitat: Caves, REI

Outstanding qualities: May cause physical damage if the culprit is sitting during transmission

Fig. 346

Too Many Cherries

Origin: Overindulgence of dried or seasonal fruit

Culprit: Women of advancing age, romance writers, Nancy Pelosi

Habitat: Coffe shops, comfort shoe stores, J. Jill

Fig. 248

SOS

Origin: Bologna sandwiches, eggs prepared any way, generic sodas

Culprit: Enlisted men, evangelists

Habitat: Tight quarters, baggage claim

Fig. 475

Mr. Grunt

Origin: Hot dogs, frozen burritos, fake crab

Culprit: Retirees, dead gym teachers

Habitat: Costco sample carts, will hover over the backs of couches, all public transportation

Fig. 363

Hippie

Origin: Organic matter, unspecified

Culprit: Anyone dirty, poets, “peaceniks”

Habitat: Commonly found unattended at Burning Man, protests of any sort, bulk-food aisle.

Outstanding qualities: Scatters like buckshot with potential of up to a mile radius

The Post Office Lady with the Dragon Tattoo

I had been dreading this day for more than a year.

I felt my heartbeat speed up as I took another step forward in line, one customer closer and a few feet nearer to the counter. I kept my eyes down, focusing on the scrape on the top of my boot or on the collection of measuring cups and kitchen accessories that lined the aisle where I was trapped. I didn’t want to look up. I couldn’t even bring myself to try.

The Mean Lady might be looking at me.

Typically I don’t have such anxiety while waiting in line at the post office, but, to tell the truth, I was on the verge of a panic attack. I was starting to sweat, and there was no doubt that I felt jittery to the point that I thought I might explode.

I cursed myself for not taking a Valium in preparation. I wasn’t supposed to be here.

And the Mean Lady knew that.

I looked up quickly. She had her eyes locked on me like the infrared laser beam of an unmanned drone.

A wave of trepidation swallowed my body, especially my GI tract, and I felt the smothering desire to flee. I was almost ready to turn on my heels and head back out the door when I remembered the package in my arms, and a bolt of bravery hit me. No, it said. You must stay. You have things to mail for your little nephew, your little nephew who will only wear something referred to as “unders” briefs from a kids’ store called Hanna Andersson, an outlet store of which just happens to be across the street from Jamie’s house.

Do it for the boy, the bolt of bravery said. Do it for the unders.

So I stayed, despite the terror, despite the laser eyes, despite the consequences. When I walked into the store, I already knew my chances of making it up to the counter were as slim as my mother making it through a pregnancy without smoking.

When we first moved in to our house in Eugene, I used to enjoy going to our little post office satellite station, located inside the drugstore and stocked to meet literally any human need you might have within the bounds of the law. It has a garden section, pet department, party-goods area, several rows of greeting cards—in essence, it’s a drugstore but with way more stuff hanging from the ceiling, stacked on the shelves, and popping out from the walls. It’s not a place you want to go if you’re averse to confined, cramped quarters or get easily embarrassed if you knock things down, because that’s just part of the experience. I’m not sure how many people with OCD have spontaneously combusted in that store, but I’m sure the number is not insignificant. You walk in, wander through the labyrinth of sparkly Hello-Kittied hologrammed trinkets, topple over end caps, get lost, suddenly