So, I went to the Post Office to mail off some tax garbage and a postcard. (Speaking of postcards and Postcarding, we’re going to have a talk. Postcard Receivers, you’re on notice.) Generally I enjoy going to the Post Office. Most people loath it. But unlike the DMV, which may very well be Purgatory on Earth, I find the Post Office to be abuzz with community and communication. Plus, it provides me with an oft-needed reason to leave the house and get some exercise, whereas I would otherwise just sit at home all day and work. (Not complaining, just recognizing that I need to get out on occasion.)
Regardless, here was my awesome Post Office experience this particular visit:
First I went over to the stamp machine as I need to replenish my postcard stamp cache. But the postcard stamps were conspicuously missing from the machine. I looked over to the main customer area. There were a few people sitting on the benches, but the wait shouldn’t be too long.
I sidled over to the take-a-number thingy. There was a lady with bad frosted hair hovering over it. I kindly asked her to step aside so that Lordleiter might get his cue number. She turned to me and said, “They aren’t taking numbers.” I was fairly sure this wasn’t the case. I’ve never been to this Post Office when they weren’t using the numbers. I indicated as much to the bad-haired lady, but she refused my advice. So I told her I would still like to take a number just in case. And before I walked away, I offered her my first pull. (It was #01. The cue was on #96.) Again she refused.
Just as I sauntered away from the number machine, another customer finished their business and walked away from the mail counter. The no-number lady tried to just fill the vacancy, but the cunning Postal employee would have none of it. Post Office Lady quickly changed the cue number and called out, “Number 97.” Having witnessed the exchange between me and the bad-haired, no-numbered, impatient lady, Number 97 held his number high and said, “That’s me!”
The bad-haired, no-numbered, impatient, rebuffed lady looked back at me as if to say, “I guess you were right. May I take you up on that number offer now?” I looked back at her and indicated, “Hells no, Weird Lady. You were so smug with your they-are-not-taking-numbers act. And now you’ve missed your chance. Guess what. You are Number 2.” OH YEAH! Score one for Lordleiter.
(I don’t know why I felt I needed to put her in her place. I can tell you that I got the impression from her that she felt as if she didn’t belong with the lowly people in the Post Office and she felt entitled to “go next” so she could get out of there quickly, and that she was going to reprimand her housekeeping for calling in sick and forcing her hand like this. Though, I could have easily misinterpreted my impression of her. Perhaps she need to use the restroom real bad. But more selfish than that, once I pulled #01, I knew I was going to get to make a #2-poo joke. That’s more tempting than cash in a lost wallet.)
A short time later, my number came up and I went up to the mail counter. I indicated that I need to send off my tax form and that I’d like to buy a book of postcard stamps.
“We don’t have any stamps for postcards,” he indicated.
“You guys are out of them?” I inquired.
“No, they haven’t been made yet,” he informed.
“The Post Office raised postal rates…two months ago. Yet they still haven’t issued new stamps?” I really was confused.
“That’s correct. We have stamps for letters, though.”
“Man, that seems ridiculous. Surely, they…and I know this isn’t your fault in particular, but seriously…nevermind. Just do whatever you have to do. My congressman will hear about this!” I assured him.
My total came to $0.86. Luckly, I had a crisp $1 on me, so I paid in cash. And then, and this is the cruncher, as the Post Office guy was moving my postcard from the counter to the outbox…HE READ IT! He picked up the card, turned his torso to the outbox, READ IT during the twist, dropped it into the outbox, spun back around, looked me in the eye and then asked if I needed anything else. “Yes, I could also use a book of ‘DON’T READ MY POSTCARDS RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME’, JERKOFF?!?!”
I accept that postcards are fair game to any hands they pass through. But for the love of Jack Lord, at least wait for the author to leave the building.