The United States Postal Service is holding me hostage in my own home.

I'm expecting a package.

It's an important package. So important that I need it today. So important that it's being shipped through Express Mail®. (An example of the prestige of Express Mail®: it is the only type of mail that ships on federal holidays. Not that that does me any good, because I don't need this package on a federal holiday; I need it today.)

Recipients of Express Mail® have to sign for it, which is why I am sitting in my living room/moving box storage facility when I could be getting my oil changed, buying my sister's Christmas present, continuing to move things out of Leigh's house, or any of a number of other things that would require me to be elsewhere. Because I need that goddamn package today.

I'll let you know if I got it.

UPDATE. I got it! I got it! Oh, and I didn't have to sign for it - I found the precious package crammed into my mailbox with my Cinergy bill and the new Cincinnati Magazine. La-ame. But at least I was able to give my steady Eddie the gift of lower-deck Bengals tickets.