Chick Wit: Junk mail can be toxic in a reactor zone

Posted: June 23, 2013

Do you remember when you wanted mail?

I don't.

If you do, you must be younger than I am, or have a better memory, which is basically the same thing.

Bottom line, I'm not sure when this happened, but there came a time when mail started to suck.

Correction. I know exactly when this happened.

When I grew up and started paying my own bills.

We can all agree that bills are no fun, but that's not even the problem I have with my mail. Because at least bills are important. After all, they mean I did something or used something or ate something or bought something, and now it's time to pay the piper.

This is America.

And I get that.

The problem is that the bills are the best part of my mail, which tells you how much my mail sucks.

I don't know why I bother walking to my mailbox every day, and to tell you the truth, I don't bother. I let the mail pile up, and the only reason I get it after a few days is that I want people to know I'm still alive.

My mailbox is at the end of the driveway, but it's barely worth the walk to get a flurry of coupons I can't use, Valpaks for mediocre Chinese restaurants, offers for free vacations that aren't really free, or cards with an 800 number I can call to claim unclaimed property or freight that I know will not belong to me.

I have all my property.

And I divorced all my freight.

Most of the time, I walk from my mailbox directly to the recycling bin. In fact, if the mail were addressed to my recycling bin, that would save a lot of time.

But yesterday, I got the suckiest piece of mail ever, and I thought I would share it with you because I bet you don't live within a 10-mile radius of a nuclear reactor.

Like I do.

Did I mention I'm selling the house, as of today?

I didn't even know I lived within 10 miles of a nuclear reactor until I got the notice in the mail.

Well, come to think of it, I knew there was something vaguely nuclear in the distance because I could see the weird towers, but I figured they were farther away than 10 miles.

Like maybe in Detroit.

Also, now that you mention it, I hear an earsplitting alarm the first Monday of every month, which is testing the system for nuclear emergency, but who doesn't need a good alarm on a Monday?

Also, the nuclear reactor is in a town called Limerick, and you can understand how this name contributed to my denial. Limerick reminds me of shamrocks, leprechauns, and green happiness in general.

Erin Go Boom!

If I were going to locate a nuclear reactor anywhere, I would name the town something as appealing as Limerick, too.

Like Luckyville.

Or Moneytown.

Or Lotsasinglemenburg.

And the company that runs the nuclear reactor is called Exelon, is another great name.

My nuclear company would be called Awesomey.

Or Fantasticon!

Or Besty McBesterson Enterprises.

Anyway, to return to the mail, it was a cheery pastel-colored brochure, which I thought was for another lame Chinese restaurant until I opened it and read the top of the first page:


Answer: You don't want to know.

But it's good you like green because that's your new skin color in the event of a nuclear emergency.

I read through the pamphlet, which contained a section on how to prepare for the emergency, and it suggested that first thing, I should pack my portable radio.

I'll get right on that. I'm sure it's around somewhere, like in 1965.

The brochure also said that, in the event of a nuclear accident, I should stock up on potassium iodide, but I'm pretty sure I have a couple of bananas lying around, which is probably the same thing.

Finally, the brochure made clear that in the event of an evacuation, only service animals would be permitted inside shelters.

No problem.

I'm getting maids' outfits for all the dogs and cats.

They're serving me as we speak.

Look for Lisa and Francesca's columns collected in their newest book, "Meet Me at Emotional Baggage Claim." Also, look for Lisa's new novel, "Don't Go," in stores now. You can write to Lisa at

comments powered by Disqus