Neither Snow, Nor Rain, Nor Heat, Nor Gloom of Night Stays These Couriers From Beating Your Package

Funny how the Post Office works, don't you think? Not funny ha-ha. Funny peculiar. Take my Post Office. Please!

Okay. That wasn't fair. I have TWO Post Offices. There's the Dead-Mouse-Smelling Post Office, where the workers are fairly competent, except when they want to bust my hump by asking for ID when I bring in the orange card left in my box to pick up my package, which is clearly addressed to me. Never mind that they will hand out my packages all willy-nilly to various and sundry persons who walk in and say, "I think we have a package, but I don't have the card." Uh huh. It's true.

Sixteen-year-old Pony, with his scraggly almost-Amish beard (not that there's anything wrong with that) can commandeer my package forthwith, no ID necessary. Same for my mom. "Um. I think my daughter has a package here. She got a card, but I don't have it. She forgot it at home, and didn't have time to go back. She doesn't like me to drive all the way out there. They live way past the prison, and the roads are not very good. She said I might have to sign something. I'm her mother, and I'm retired. My daughter works, so she has trouble getting here before you close. She's a teacher, and she has to stay after school for a faculty meeting, and so her son can practice for his Scholar Bowl team. Oh! You have it already! Thank you. I will tell my daughter how nice you were."

Yeah. The DMSPO is fairly efficient, if you don't mind the line of people which usually includes a grabby old man who sticks his hand in your buttcrack and acts like it was an accident.

Last week I had to go to the Main Post Office. It's a hub. Everything goes through there for shipping out and shipping in. This is where I had trouble with my box of just-published books that disappeared into thin air between the publisher and my mailbox. And where the counter guy overcharged me for a flat rate box that was supposed to cost $5.95, but loosened my purse strings to the tune of $8.40. And like Baby and her name in the opening scenes of Dirty Dancing, it didn't occur to me to mind. It's also where I went looking for Genius's package (heh, heh, Genius's package) and the counter guy gave me the run-around and then went in the back and dashed across the doorway like a duck in a Nintendo Duck Hunt game. So instead of the Main Post Office, I think of this one as the We're Dumb And We Don't Care Post Office.

So...I took a box in there around 4:15 p.m. to mail to Genius. No more of that flat rate crap. Hick found me a DISH box from when we got our internet gewgaws, and I stuffed the stuff inside, which was mainly a bunch of wires with odd connectors, a video light, and a microphone, and taped up that carton ten ways to Sunday. I hate when people lift flaps and peer into my package. As with my last mailing experience at the DMSPO, I had the address written in my block printing with black ink on a white note card. Here's where the two Post Offices diverge.

The counter lady at the DMSPO looked at my note card address like I had picked it up off the men's room floor, stuffed it in my butt for transport, sneezed onto my palms, withdrew it, and waved it under her nose. Her nose, which curled up in disgust. "Just lay it on the counter." She typed up an address sticker and slapped it on that package.

The dumbledorf at the WDAWDCPO was the same guy who overcharged me on the flat rate, and questioned the address on my card, because he didn't know that the Post Office people read from the bottom up: City, Street, Box or Suite, Name. Dumbledorf took my note card. I was expecting to get it back. It's the one I keep in my desk at school with Genius's current dorm address. But no. Dumbledorf grabbed that note card and secured it to the top of my package with several lines of 4-inch-wide clear tape.

It's like those two Post Offices have no common regulations. Like they are the left Twix factory that cascades chocolate onto the cookie bar, and the right Twix factory that flows chocolate onto the cookie bar. If these two Post Offices were walking down the street, snacking, paying no attention to their surroundings, they would be sure to collide, with one screaming, "You got peanut butter on my chocolate!" and the other bellowing, "You got chocolate in my peanut butter!"

Forget everything above. What I originally set out to tell you was that while Dumbledorf was fumbling around with my package, his co-worker, Lackadaisical, was trying to help an irate customer whose wedding gifts had been lost in the mail.

"No. You don't understand. My mail is being delivered to the wrong place."

"Yes. Our carrier has been putting mail for Apt. 11 in the box for Apt. 1. He just doesn't look far enough at the address."

"Well, I want my packages."

"We don't have your packages."

"Where are they then?"

"I suppose your neighbor had them."

"I want you to get them back. You gave them to the wrong person."

"We can't get them back."

A dude walked out of the back room. "A guy just called here complaining that he got the wrong mail."

"That must be mine. I want my packages."

"He didn't bring them in. We can't do anything about that."

"But YOU lost it!"

"We'll talk to the carrier about making sure to deliver the mail to the right address."

"Sir, you would not be so uncaring if these were YOUR wedding gifts."

"All you can do is ask your neighbor."

"That shouldn't be MY problem."

"We can't do anything about it."

Then my Dumbledorf lost interest in their conversation, and almost asked me if I wanted fries with my package, but instead offered me stamps. Which I DID need, and had planned on buying anyway, but then he tried to switch me from the flags to Christmas stamps, so I gave in.

I'm sure the county collector will enjoy my season's greetings conveyed by Rudolph and the Abominable Snowman.