In which I take the cowhide to the post office and become part of a conspiracy

The cowhide weighed three and a half kilos -- too heavy to carry in my backpack. We took it to the post office and I asked how much it would cost to mail it to the U.S.

“Twenty-five dollars,” the clerk told me.

“That’s rather expensive!” I said. I decided I could carry it for a while.

“It’s the government!” the clerk said. “Did you know they are talking about privatizing the post office?”

Well, no, we didn’t.

“How many post offices in first world countries are privatized?” he asked. He put his index finger under his eye, the Latin sign for “Beware.” “You watch! There’s something strange going on here.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “I think Carlos Menem wants to make the post office private so he and his buddies can send drugs through the mail without worrying about postal inspectors!”

In which Doris wants me to sell her old clothes

Primo told me that Doris wants to ship her winter clothes - her more than seven years' old winter clothes - up here for me to sell.

Because there is no market for winter clothes where she lives. And you have to take them to the dry cleaners, first.

Bless her heart, based on my eBay scan, there does not seem to be much of a market, period, for old Oleg Cassini or Valerie Stevens clothes. Especially the kind worn by older ladies.

ADDED

Let me expand on this.

Explain to me why I should schlep someone else's old clothes across town trying to find a consignment shop that will take them when that person does nothing but criticize me (to Primo) while complaining (to Primo) that she has been "reaching out" to me, which does not mean actually contacting me to try to develop a relationship but instead apparently means nothing more than saying to Primo that she is "reaching out."

What is in it for me to try to sell these clothes? Do I get a cut? Do I get gratitude and an apology for the crummy way she's treated me?

I doubt it.

Even if I were to get a cut, I don't think I could be laughing my way to the bank.

Yes, you knew the tackiness was coming.

I have seen how Doris dresses.

It would be one thing if she had a closet full of DVF wrap-around dresses, which go for a few hundred dollars on eBay. Or if she had Chanel suits. Or anyone else super famous.

Nobody comes to mind because haute couture is not within my reach and really, I don't care. Go all Devil Wears Prada on me about how the choices the designers make filter down to my ratty acrylic blue sweater. Blah blah blah. Whatever. I know what looks good on me. I know quality because I used to sew my own clothes. I could never in a million years afford haute couture so I don't care. It's just not my thing. Fine for other people, but I just don't care.

That said, I do know tacky clothing and bad taste when I see it.

If the outfit that Doris wore to our wedding is any indication of her taste in dressy clothes - all I have ever seen her in otherwise is t-shirts, capris, and sandals - then I am positive that there is no secondary market for her clothes.

She moved her winter clothes from the frozen north to Florida over seven years ago.

I don't know why she did that. They had no intention of moving back north.

Now, finally, she is realizing that perhaps she should clear those clothes out of her guest closet, where they reside above the paper bag full of old newspapers that they also paid someone to move to Florida? Now, she is realizing that?

Now, she wants to sell those clothes.

Correction. She wants to ship them to me and for me to sell them for her.

And what do I get out of this?

Nothing. I get nada, bupkus, zippo.

Yes, I am cranky.