Pack mules to the left of me, carrier pigeons to the right

So today I took my life in my own hands and went to the post office.

Something I rarely if ever do. I mean, I am sure it has been at least eight months since I visited a post office.

As a general rule I make TG go in my stead. He seems to be better at it … but not always.

If he isn't available to do my bidding I shoot an e-card or e-mail through cyberspace, or I dispatch carrier pigeons, or I send up smoke signals. 

In desperate situations I consider pack mules, asking the whole time, where is the Pony Express when you need it?

Because usually I'd just as soon deliver a message or gift in person by crawling on my knees with the piece of mail clutched in my teeth, than play post office.

Where, I am told and I firmly believe, bitter bureaucrats go to torment and be tormented.

A Girl's Gotta Do What A Girl's Gotta Do

But sometimes you have no choice but to take a package to the post office. Today was one of those days for me.

I had, in fact, two padded mailers to send. One to New York and one to Washington (the state). Plus a card going to Georgia (stamp affixed), and a Netflix postage-prepaid envelope. 

Simple; right? In and out. I had seven dollars and change in my wallet. Both padded mailers were very light.

Shouldn't be any reason to break out the old debit card.

As it turned out, if the post office had their way, I'd have to hock my jewelry to send those two bubbles-are-heavier bubble mailers, and throw in my firstborn grandchild for collateral.

But that was not all! They wanted my sanity too. Granted that commodity is thin on the ground and I cannot imagine what use the United States Postal Service would have for it, but do not doubt me: they wanted it.

If you've been paying attention, you know I am a forthright individual. If you're around me for five minutes and don't know what I'm doing there or what I want, it's because you're either not conscious, not interested, or not listening.

AH! Listening! That provocative concept rears its empty head again.

Step Right Up And Be A Postal Victim Customer

So I wait in line and when it's my turn I go up to the counter. Nice black guy there. I hand him the stamped envelope and the Netfix envelope and he knows what to do with those, so that's that.

Then I hand him the first of my flat padded mailers. The small one, going to Zuzu in Washington. I doubt it weighs eight ounces; it contains a copy of Reach Out, Columbia (Zuzu wants to read my article) and a decorative Z about the size of a deck of cards.

I leave nothing to chance; it's past four thirty and I'm in a hurry to get to the bank. That's assuming I have any money left when I leave the post office.

So I go into my song and dance: Hello, here you are sir, cheapest rate possible please, it's not time sensitive, there are no hazardous materials, absolutely no funny business, no insurance necessary, thanks ever so!

He ignores me and, reaching out to this little screen thingy on the counter near me, turns it around so that I can see what's on it: a list of mailing options and prices.

You're On Our Turf Now, Muffin

But! I begin.

He silences me with a hand. Ma'am, he says, if I want to keep my job I have to show you all of the options and you are required to point to the one you want.

But! I try again.

Again he interrupts me. Ma'am, he says slowly, I know you told me how you wanted to send it but if I want to keep my job, I am required to show you all of these options and you have to specify which one you choose.

Okay. I look at the options.

The first one -- his finger is near it because, from across the counter, he's pointing at it for me -- is twenty-six dollars and change. 

Yes. Twenty-six dollars to send an eight-ounce padded mailer containing a three-dollar gift from South Carolina to Washington State.

Of course there are cheaper options … lots of options, in fact, all marching down the little screen for me to choose from.

The last one is two dollars and fifty-eight cents. Cheapest rate possible, nothing hazardous, no insurance, just git 'er done. Exactly as I requested in the first place.

I choose that one. For all I know, it will make its way across the country on the backs of geriatric elephants. Or in the clammy paws of specially-trained ferrets that eat only rare purple sunflower seeds grown organically in Fiji during the rainy season in odd years, harvested before sunrise on days ending in the letter Y.

But I doubt it, for the low price of two fifty-eight.

I'll Take The Prize Behind Door Number Three

We go through the same rigmarole for the second padded mailer -- the large one. It's even lighter than the last, because it contains only a baby outfit and two cards.

The postal worker tells me again that if he wants to keep his job, I have to point again to the option I want from the little screen.

I begin to wonder if the Postmarauder Specific is watching from behind a curtain like in The Wizard of Oz, or from a shadowy booth like the diabolical Banker on Deal Or No Deal.

Okey-dokey then. I play along and it sets me back two thirty-eight. I could've spent twenty-two dollars for that if I'd wanted to ... it was one of the tantalizing options.

But that is not all!

Our man for all reasons tells me once more that he must detain me further or lose his job. This time he winks conspiratorially and adds that he still has "one in school." 

HAHAHA! Trying to get sympathy from me with that old saw? He'll sooner coax coconut milk from a bowling ball.

So I just look at him because I am fresh out of packages. And cash. Don't have much time left, either. I wait to be told what I must do next so that he does not lose his job because of course, why would I want that to happen?

It was simple! I had to be coached through a few more major decisions: Did I want or need stamps, postcards, or a money order? Was I in the market for a time share on a post office box?

How about filet of ferret, medium well, with a side of freedom fries?

Like, by now I've been in the post office for fifteen minutes and I've been put through my paces several times with much finger-pointing, and against all odds I am still in my right mind -- or what passes for that in my case -- but I need to be prompted to ask if I want to buy stamps.

I told him no but I said it better than that. You'll just have to imagine the terms I used.

Comments

[kev]

I particularly liked the post you linked to in your third paragraph. That was a very funny story, and the site that hosts it looked very funny as well. I shall have to browse it more thoroughly when time permits.

THIS post was very entertaining as well, of course! Seriously, when did going to the post office turn into a trip to a used car dealership?

Me: "I would like to mail this package please."

USPS Employee: "I can give you a great deal on this Ford Explorer. Only 211,000 miles! Want to test drive it? Come on, let's go. Also, do you want stamps?"

[Debbie]

Ouch. What an experience. But I'm not sure your postal employee is correct about having to point to your options and show you every one. In our little post office, they simply run through the options by voice as they take my package, like a fast high speed recording, because we know each other. They know I will tell them whatever service I want or don't want. The nice thing about small towns I guess.

[Jennifer]

Kev ... yes! That site I linked to is one that I cannot live without. Its author does not blog half enough! He's witty, charming, clever and most creative! We need more sites like SKOS! And yeah ... if I'd stood there long enough I think that "postal" worker would've tried to sell me the Brooklyn Bridge.

Debbie ... well, I don't exactly live in a teeming metropolis, and honestly, this is the first time I've ever gotten this song-and-dance routine at the PO. Apparently it's something new. They used to listen to what you said and give you what you asked for without turning it into some long drawn-out production. I don't know what has gotten into people. I just don't. I'm not going there anymore, though. Hang 'em.

[Donna M.]

LOL! Love your sidetracking about ferrets and all! I could actual picture one dragging one of your bubble mailers along the ground, with his pointy little teeth imbedded on a corner. I think it is time to investigate how to get your postage done online...

[JT]

I would rather have a root canal without benefit of anaesthetic than go to the Post Office. Do they realize one of the reasons they've been hemorrhaging (sp?) taxpayer funds forever is that their customer service is abysmal? The small post office on base is okay, as long as you don't mind their never having the stamps you need. They're friendlier, at least, and don't seem to be quite so confused about what people want. Never had one insist on going through the entire script, though, whether I wanted it or not. Sheez.

[Jennifer]

Donna M ... yeah girl .... the Ferret Express. We could make a million. You in?

JT ... I know; right? Bureaucrats being even worse than usual. How depressing.

[irene]

Wow what an ordeal.

[Donna (Texas)]

Ahhhh...sorry about being tardy, but am Finally here!
I want to refil my coffee...This was SO darn funny! Unbelieveable prices nowadays....Glad you helped to Save His Job!!Hahahaaaaa
hughugs