Because In My Mind, I Am 13 Years Old

Yesterday after school, The Pony and I rushed to the post office so I could mail a package to Genius. He was just home, you know, but I had conferences last week, and barely saw him 10 minutes each night. Which is probably how he preferred it. Anyhoo...I had some treats to send him for the Easter holiday, just to surprise him. If you have Googled yourself again, Genius, HOWDY! Guess it won't be a surprise after all.

So this box was about the size of a shoebox. Awkward. Heavier than a pair of shoes. When we got to the post office, every parking spot save one was full. Not the dead-mouse-smelling post office. The main facility, with covered off-street parking. We have been making stops there since the hours changed in Deadmouseville, and I always have to wait behind people making the most ridiculous requests, or rightfully complaining about their piss-poor service. Like the guy who needed his wedding presents, but the mailman delivered them to apartment 1 instead of apartment 11, and the clerk told him that he would have to get those gifts back himself, since the post office was not responsible. NOT RESPONSIBLE!

Last week, I was behind a woman filling out four separate passport request forms, two of them being for the early-elementary-age boy and girl who were bouncing off the walls and running to jump and slap their father(figure's) hand. Why he thought entertaining kids inside the post office when there was a perfectly good covered off-street parking lot with a wide sidewalk right on the other side of that brick wall is beyoooooond me.

I gathered an extra stamp and slapped it on the card that Genius is also getting, to throw him off suspicions of a package. Those big cards from the Dollar Store get too heavy when I put a couple of scratch-off tickets inside. Don't want him getting postage-due mail. I don't know if his dorm is set up to take a credit card or debit card for 49 cents.

"Pony. Hand me the box. I really don't want to go in here. I always have to wait behind weird people. I don't want to wait a long time. I'll be uncomfortable, standing there holding my package."

Heh, heh. It registered in my tiny dinosaur brain, what I'd just said. That, and I caught The Pony's eye in the mirror. And his resigned sigh of: "Really?"

"I mean standing there holding Genius's package."

"Um. No. Just no."

"Yeah. I guess that's not something you ever want to hear again."

"Uh huuuuhhhhh."

I live to embarrass those boys. Too bad Genius is missing all the fun.

Let the record show that after stepping through the door barely ahead of a Not-Heaven's-Angel-looking dude all dressed in black, with a bowl helmet, who had just gotten off a motorcycle, and smelled heavenly heavily of beer...I was the only person at the counter, and was served forthwith.

Genius would be pleased to know that the middle-aged mannish woman clerk handled his package like a pro. I might have to include that information in his next card.