My infrequent visits to the post office have been known to trigger homicidal rage.
There was that one time that a nasty clerk made me cry on my birthday. She kept yelling at me to get back in line. This occurred after I had walked up to the unoccupied window twice to be served, having no idea that there was some man whose turn it was. Never mind that he kept leaving the periphery, as if done with his business… I had to wait for him to wander away for the final time before the clerk pointed at me to step forward. My jaw was clenched and I gave her the package slip without a word. She spent eternity looking for it. “Just to spite me,” I thought. When she found it, she carelessly dropped it on the counter and shoved it in my direction. It was a birthday package from home. There was a picture of me hanging on a tree on the side of the box. The words, “Happy Birthday to you! Happy Birthday to you! You look like a monkey, and you smell like one, too!” danced before me in my mom’s handwriting. I was so angry about that mean old bitch treating me and my care package so disrespectfully.
Then there was the time I went to the post office and overheard a postal worker tell a customer - one who was being completely reasonable - to shut up and go fix her hair. Them’s fightin’ words! There was a lot of finger pointing and neck snapping that day. When it was my turn in line, I had to deal with a clerk who refused to look for my package because I didn’t have a slip. Even after I explained that Amazon.com reported the package was delivered to the post office and that I had mistakenly not received a slip for a different package I’d received a few weeks ago. I merely asked her to check and see if there was a mistake. She refused. When I returned the next time with Cade, she finally looked for the package, and there it was! On a shelf somewhere, covered in dust!
But guess what? This is not an entry solely about going postal and how much I rue the USPS. I went to the post office yesterday to pick up a package from my parents. I knew things might get ugly, so I took a Xanax beforehand. Well, not really, but I ate lunch to prepare for battle. I walked inside and there he was. The one decent human being who works at my post office. I don’t know his name, but he has always remembered mine and my box number. As soon as he saw me, he beamed, “Amanda! I have a big box for you!” It’s been months since I’ve seen him, but he treats me like a friend. It’s crazy. As per usual, I stood at the end of the line and he brought my box to me first. It makes me feel so much more important than I am, but contrary to what Cade believes, I am not the only one being doted on. An older man in line - the second to last person in line and next to get helped after me - gestured to my post office hero and said, “He’s the only nice one here, I swear to ya. Always nice and remembers my name.” I agreed. I’ve always thought I should ask to see his manager and recognize him for exceptional service, but have never really inquired about it. I’ll have to before I move out of the neighborhood, whenever that may be.
So the package… The package represented the contradiction that is my parents. Carb-ridden, constipation-inducing processed snack foods AND bags of fibrous dried fruits. (On top of a box of “gentle, yet effective” laxatives - yee haw!) An elegant card from my mom AND a plastic cup of candy with the words “FROM DAD” in chicken scratch handwriting.
Best of all, I loved the note from my mom. Here’s a passage about our geriatric bulldog:
Abby is really showing her age these last few weeks. She has started peeing the bed in her sleep, and last night she puddled in the hallway. I’m thinking about getting her some Depends briefs to try. Am I weird, or what? A while back, she started having more trouble with her tummy so now I only make her chicken and rice with gravy to eat. She still gets treats and a little table meat scraps, but no canned dog food. Mind you, she’s not complaining, and the air pollution is better. She also has become VERY DEAF. She farted loudly the other day and scared herself badly. Ah, the life of an old lady dog.
