how to not have cervical cancer now but maybe next week instead

First, hear the stealth taps. Tap. Tap. Two taps, on the red metal screen door.

Bolt to the door, then, from the dining room. Witness your Passive-Aggressive Postal Ninja Lady scurrying down your stairs.

Fling open the door. Say, Hey. Hi. I’m home. That’s why the front door is open behind the screen door. And the car is out front. Because, you know, I’m HOME.

She glares at you. Oh. I didn’t hear THE DOGS, she says. She hates your dogs. She reported you to the main post office a year ago, because your mellow, friendly dogs put her “at risk of bodily harm.” Her supervisor told you that she insisted that your dogs were highly likely to break through your glass windows—like Tom Cruise stunt doubles on meth—for the sole purpose of removing her carotid artery.

Because of this report, you had to hang another mailbox at the base of your steps. When it is raining, she leaves the lid open, because that will show you.

She dislikes Mail That Must Be Signed For. So she likes to pretend not to notice when you are home. Instead, if at all possible, she leaves a peach-colored Bring This to the Post Office to Claim Your Mail slip in your soggy mailbox.

You do not wish to belabor the point—that you are home, that you have been home for ten years, waiting for your mail. This point is a pointless point, because Passive-Aggressive Postal Ninja Lady hates your dogs, and you. She likes to leave clumps of your mail on your concrete steps in the rain, where the mail forms into little papier-mache sculptures that your children admire. She regularly delivers any expensive-looking packages to a neighbor two streets over, whom she likes.

It is a game you play, the two of you.

Clear your throat. Well, say, I am home.

Yes, she says grimly. You are.

Smile patiently, as is your way. Think, This is so not worth crow’s feet.

She shoves the peachy slip directly into your abdomen—a punch that does not quite connect. Sign this, she says. You take her pen. You remember your friend Sarah, who once explained to you that it is possible to kill another human with a ballpoint pen, if your aim is true.

Sign the slip. Hand it back.

Passive-Aggressive Postal Ninja Lady fishes around in her satchel and pulls out a certified letter. She hands it to you, with some reluctance. Foiled, you think.

But the joke, as usual, is on you. The letter is from the doctor’s office. Your eyes widen. Blurt out, Certified mail from my doctor? This can’t be good.

Noooooooo, croons Passive-Aggressive Postal Ninja Lady, smiling suddenly. Definitely not. She bark-laughs in your face, then leaves, humming.

Fortunately, your friend Karli is visiting. She has witnessed this exchange.

Ask, That just happened, right?

She reassures you that, yes, that did just happen, and your Passive-Aggressive Postal Ninja Lady is, in fact, insane.

It is good to have friends.

Open the certified mail from your doctor’s office. Your jaw drops and bounces around a bit on the shelf of your bosom. The letter reads, in all caps:

YOU DO NOT HAVE CERVICAL CANCER NOW!

But I will, right? That’s what they are trying to say? you ask your friend.

She nods with great sympathy. Yes, probably by next week. I’m sorry.

This is a very odd letter, you say.

Yes, yes, it is, says your friend. You both burst out laughing. It is very good to have friends who agree with your stance: that the world, in fact, is more peculiar than you are.