Dena Taylor’s Musings

I’m not sure what has drawn my mother to the post office in the last few years but like Angelina to adoption, politicians to guys named Joe or squirrels to nuts, she’s hooked. Through what we now refer to as MPS, or Mom’s Parcel Service, we, her offspring, can expect to receive a minimum of one package per month. Contents vary from something she found in the family room cupboard and wants to get rid of, to something she found in the kitchen cupboard and transforms into a baked good.

The intent behind this new shipping craze is pure and welcome–for there’s nothing like a care package from Mom to make you feel special. The problem is what happens to the contents while in transit. While the care in which Mom packs her homemade cupcakes (yum), cookies (delicious) and experimental oat bars (not so much) is evident, nothing can protect her neatly packaged goods from the toss-n-dent protocol infiltrating the United States Postal Service. What left Oregon as a box of frosted cupcakes and cookies arrives in Texas looking like the floor of Amy Winehouse’s hotel room. While bringing this shipping carnage to my lips requires a certain degree of bravery, the taste is usually well worth it. It’s not unlike kissing an attractive man with a decent outcropping of facial hair. Well, you get the idea.

In one attempt to limit the mess that is a shipment of cupcakes, Mom smartly packed the frosting in a plastic bag. Mmm, sure looks appetizing.