Ok, look, I know change is hard. Which is why I want to start preparing you guys now. Dear Mr. Postman is getting a facelift, an upgrade, a custom-made home. I’ve loved this site, and its look has gotten better over the years, mostly due to my friend Ashleigh’s totally unrecognized and uncompensated efforts– and she deserves a trophy for it–

but shit just got real. Since November I’ve been working on a design with rockstar developer/coder/cool-glasses-wearer Taylor Black from Fizzy Media (tagline: We make beautiful things) (testimonial: it’s true). And Taylor has promised me the new design is close, very close, so I wanted to start prepping you guys.

I know it’s hard when websites change. I usually have an adjustment period where I yell a lot and jam my fingers at buttons and accidentally end up reading comments, which send me into a sneaky hate spiral.

This is nothing, actually, compared to what I do when things in real life change. When I was four, I went into the backyard to play and discovered our picnic table was gone. My dad was just putting the finishing knots on the ropes securing it in the back of a truck– it was on its way to the dump. Now, this thing was old and battered and rotting and falling apart and gave me splinters every time I touched it. Ten minutes later, my dad was hauling the picnic table back up the stairs, around the back of the house, and into place in the backyard to give me a few minutes alone with it.

Unfortunately, my dad didn’t learn his lesson. He’s stubborn that way. Two years later, he made the serious and foolish mistake of dismantling and removing our incredibly heavy, solid oak round kitchen table from the dining nook and putting it in the basement while I was at a friend’s house. I came home to find a rectangular table in the nook. Are you kidding me? I had learned to color, and talk, and eat, at the other table. I had eaten my after-school snacks here! Told all my best stories! My face knew the comforting curve of the legs from napping under it with the cats. Who eats at a rectangular table? It was literally going to divide our family down the middle.

My dad, ever the tough negotiator, suggested perhaps I could go say good-bye to the other table where it was. He pointed out rather insistently that it wasn’t gone, it was just down the stairs in the basement. And this new table, like the old one, also weighed approximately 100 pounds and he’d just finished assembling it. Ha! Delusional man. I opened my negotiations with “get rid of this new one and keep the old one forever otherwise my childhood is ruined.” The old table came back up to its rightful place for me to say a proper farewell.

My mom, however, would not bring the old, ratty, and torn curtains back. She insisted that the new curtains were in fact almost identical. I knew better. This cream was entirely different than the light fawn of the old. It took weeks, but I gradually adjusted. Eventually I couldn’t remember what the old curtains looked like. Then I mourned the loss of that memory, feeling that I’d failed them.

Look, all I’m saying is, I’m really lucky we never moved houses when I was a kid. Or my parents are. Also, you may laugh if you know me at the idea that I’m now way more “flexible” but EVERYTHING IS RELATIVE.

And the new site looks amazing, and I’m so proud of it, and it really has been made exactly for Dear Mr. Postman. It’s tailored (taylored!) so well for this dumb, sweet, incredibly heavy, splintery blog that I’ve been writing for so many years now. So we’re doing it. We’re moving. If you’re anything like me, it’s time to start saying good-bye.

And I ask for your patience and fortitude when we do switch over– it’ll take some time to get used to the new layout, but I think it’ll be worth it. And hopefully it’s designed to last so you can settle in knowing that it’ll be around for a while– like this stupid-ass pine rectangular kitchen table I’m writing this post on right now. And of course, there might be kinks to work out, and I’m hoping you’ll let me know what’s working and not working, so I can try to help make the transition as smooth as possible. I may not be quite as terrified of your screams the superhero that my dad was, but I’ll do my best.

PS– I’m really sorry, Dad.