Book rate
Me: I need to mail this First Class please.
Rose: Okay.
Me: [watches the first class rate pop up on the screen]
Rose: Is it a book or something?
Me: Yep, it’s a book.
Rose: [Does some more typing, stamps MEDIA MAIL all over the package and prints out a postage label for $3ish]
Me: Wait. How long is that going to take to get there?
Rose: Book rate takes a loooooong time.
Me: Yes. Which is why I asked for First Class.
Rose: Well, I asked you if it was a book and you said yes.
Me: Yes, because you asked. Nevertheless, I said as soon as I walked up here that it should be be sent First Class.
Rose: Harrumph. [Prints out another label to complete the First Class $7ish postage and covers the MEDIA MAIL stamps with first class stickers.]
God dammit, I hate her.
Let me tell you about the triple homicide I did not commit this morning
I arrive at the post office a few minutes after it opened. Two customers were in line in front of me; five or six lined up behind me fairly quickly.
And we all stood around for considerably longer than was strictly necessary.
The couple already at the counter, transacting their business with the ONE postal worker on duty, were very chatty and needed to see all the commemorative stamps available because they might be interested in buying some of them. I don’t mind any of this in theory but they were apparently unable to multitask so each question and assessment of stamps was a separate act in what was quickly becoming a 100-act play that no one wanted to see. After what seemed like three hours, they finished their business and moved on.
This was a tremendous relief to the man in line on front of me who was becoming increasingly agitated at the first couple’s behavior. He was becoming so agitated that I thought he might have a mild stroke right there in the post office. Strokes are serious business, almost as serious as waiting in line at the goddamned post office behind clueless rude people, so I want to reassure you that I would have called 911 while stepping over him to get to the counter thereby getting him the medical care he needed and keeping the line moving.
He didn’t stroke out but he did nearly cause me to when he got to the counter and asked the ONE postal worker to find some “pretty” stamps because he was sending this card to his mother. As the card was being sent at a non-standard rate or size or something, it took some time to find the correct combination of pretty and the $.94 postage required.
Interestingly, he would no longer make eye contact with me like he had been so eager to do when were were in line behind Commemorative Stamp Couple. Wonder why.
They all do it the same
In the post office on Christmas Eve was a sort-of scruffy-bearded young guy. Tall, lanky, and wearing golf shoes, khaki work pants, two hoodies, scarf, gloves and a knit cap that stretched its tiny stripes around his ponytail. Absolutely nothing he was wearing should have looked tidy but it did because it was help together with his attitude, the attitude of a guy who is used to rolling out of bed looking simultaneously like he just rolled out of bed and completely put together, albeit a bit incongruously.
Honestly, only the shoes threw me. I tried to imagine what he did for a living. I didn’t have to imagine how he spent his free time. Some people telegraph their interests and allegiances directly and some through the way they carry themselves, dress, and interact. Sometimes they even punctuate it with an Ants Marching ring tone that starts up as they exit the post office having successfully transacted their last bit of important business for the day.
This is becoming a habit
It happened again.
This time, when she asked what I was insuring and made a face that indicated that her opinion was forthcoming, I said, “Look, we’ve had this conversation before. This photo is being mailed to a customer who purchased it from me. Insure it for $25.”
And once again you could have heard a pin drop in the full post office as she quietly processed my order without any further comment.
I have to wonder why she cares. Based on anecdotal evidence, I think that what she actually wants is to create conflict and just generally be a horse’s ass. Fine. Bring it. I don’t like to be assertive and unpleasant, particularly in a public setting, but I’ll do it.
Please retire now
Remember this postal worker? I had the pleasure of transacting business with her today. And when I say pleasure, I do not mean it.
I walked up to the counter, said hello (pleasantly), and told her I wanted to send my parcel priority mail with $25 insurance. Instead of asking me if I had anything liquid fragile, perishable, or hazardous1 in the mailer envelope, she said, “What have you got in there that’s worth $25?”
“It’s a photograph.”
“A photograph!?”
“Why are you insuring that?”
“Because it is valuable.”2
“So what’s it worth then?”
“Twenty-five dollars.” (Perhaps I said that a bit forcefully since everyone got really quiet in the post office.)
At this point she turns and walks to the door leading to the back of the vast, cavernous post office and yells at one of her colleagues to bring the new stamps up to the front. Because, I can only assume, there was a large, completely silent and invisible crowd of angry customers standing directly behind me waving knives and demanding the new stamps RIGHT NOW.
She wanders back a little while later and asks, “So how much did you want to insure this for? $50? $20?”
“Twenty-five dollars.”
“Oh.”
And then it was mercifully over.
1. Which I believe she is required, by law, to ask.
2. As in, it has a value of $25. Unless you are Karnak the Magnificent3 reincarnated and can discern the “true” (whatever that means) value of the contents of the mailer, shut the fuck up.
3. Oh, if only.
Transaction
Standing in line in the post office today, I witnessed one of the most frustrating transactions I have ever seen.
A woman for whom English is clearly her second language was trying to purchase two money orders totaling $1600. One was $1000 and the other was $600. She handed a large stack of bills to the postal worker who counted it out twice and said, “You’ve only got $1500 here.”
For the next 10 minutes (Give or take a few seconds, and yes, I timed it.) the customer asked the only question she could muster in order to understand what the problem was. The question was, in my opinion, unbelievably reasonable and simple to answer: “How much more do I need?”
The postal worker, about whom I have written before, said everything but, “You need $100.” Instead, she said things like:
- “You need to give me $1600.”
- “There’s only $1500 here.”
- “I need $1600.”
- “You want a money order for $1000 and $600 right? I need $1600.”
- “You don’t have enough money here.”
And then, finally, she slipped up and said, “You need $100.” and the customer said, “Oh!” and the transaction was sorted out and processed.
If you’re thinking about making some comment along the lines of, “Well, she (the customer) needs to learn the language.” Or “This is America. She needs to speak English.” then don’t bother because seriously, WTF is wrong with you? The person who deserves your contempt is the postal worker who is either stupid or a bitch. There is simply no other excuse for her behavior.
Postal
Today I stopped at the post office to mail a photo to Simon and had a chance to enjoy the very, very special people who work there. Of the five postal workers up at the counter, 2 of them do are fantastic. The rest suck goat balls. Let me tell you about them:
- Charming, efficient, always polite man who is all of those things and persnickety about folding things neatly and lining up tape, etc. When he wraps tape around a corner, he busts out a razor the slice the tape and make the folds smooth. It makes my mildly obsessive-compulsive heart sing.
- Charming, efficient, always polite woman who is just a doll.
- Man who might be autistic. He always looks slightly startled and offended as if asking for some stamps or how much will the postage be is an assault. Mildly cranky in a way that fails utterly to be endearing since it is not accompanied by any sort of stunning efficiency.
- Self-absorbed man who has a back injury sustained on the job, which sucks big time for him and I can only imagine how much pain he is in and how much it inhibits him. Oh, no, wait. I don’t have to imagine because he talks about it nonstop. Non. Stop. All. The. Time.
- A stone cold bitch. She makes all sorts of rules for herself, sits at the counter like a queen, is rude, inefficient, greatly inconvenienced by her job. When asked today whether or not she wanted to take 30 or 60 minutes for lunch, said 30 and then claimed after the schedule was set that she’d said 60 and argued and bitched about it for a while in front of customers. This is but one example of the kind of thing she seems to do all the live-long day.
While I was filling out customs paperwork, 5 announced to the post office at large that she only had one more year before retiring. Under her breath, 2 said “Thank God.”
Amen, sister.
