'Tis the Season, and There's Still No Pleasin' Val

Ah...Christmas, the season of good will towards men.

Good will is sorely lacking in Val's life. But you knew that already, right? All I wanted to do was run by the dead-mouse-smelling post office and pick up my last package on Friday. I TOLD you I was done with my Christmas shopping on time! I also needed a couple of last-minute items from Walmart. So off to town I went, after getting up at the crack of 9:30 a.m. on Friday.

The mailman lady had left an orange postcard in EmBee on Thursday, saying that I had a package that could not be delivered. I knew exactly what it was, and where it was coming from. It was a John Deere wall-hanging thingy for Hick's BARn, and also a John Deere temperature thermometer thingy that you stick in the ground. They're really better gifts than what they sound like, and something Hick would desire if he saw them.

Anyhoo...the card said the package was from another seller, one that I already had my items from. So I figured the mailman lady messed up. She's been delivering later each day, sometimes after 3:00, when it used to be before noon. It's a busy time for her, so I don't fault her for the lateness. But you'd think she could get the basics right. After all, she DID give me somebody else's package on Saturday, thus necessitating that I do her job for her, and get that guy his package (heh, heh, I said something about a guy's package!) in time for Christmas. Or at least Hick had to do her job.

Anyhoo...I went into the dead-mouse-smelling post office at 10:45. They close for lunch at 11:00. Only one customer was ahead of me, paying to ship something. It didn't take long until I had the full attention of the clerk. You'd think she would welcome me with open arms, wouldn't you? Seeing that all I had in my hand was an orange postcard denoting a package to pick up. No tedious package-weighing or change-making or listening to complaints. I stepped up and handed her my card. I even had my driver's license in my pocket, just in case, ever since that time they asked me for ID, even though they'd been handing out my packages all willy-nilly to a tweenage Pony and my mom, neither of which were asked for ID, my mom not even having the orange postcard, but merely saying she was there to pick up my package.

"I just need to pick up this package, please."

"I'm gonna have to dig for it. I just got my mail." Said with a heavy sigh, as if I was putting her out to ask for my package during working hours, by presenting a notice that her own agency had left for me, instructing me to come in and pick up the package.

Seriously? It makes me no nevermind, lady, how much you have to freakin' dig! You can call and rent a backhoe for all I care, and miss your lunch waiting for it to show up. Or you can get a post hole digger and start excavating. Or grab a good old-fashioned pickax and start chipping away at your building's concrete floor. Because last time I checked, it was your freakin' J-O-B to give mail to people it is addressed to. And while you're digging, could you maybe offer me your condolences for making my life harder, by requiring me to drive all the way to town to pick up my package, when I'm pretty sure you're in the business of mail DELIVERY, and not in the business of operating a mail store where people come and pick up things that other people have paid to have delivered to them.

Okay. So maybe that's being a bit rough on the young gal. But really, I was polite and within reason to present the card they left me, and ask for my package.

Don't even get me started on the fine how-do-you-do that I got from the Walmart cashier a half hour later...

Okay. You're going to hear about it anyway. I need to stockpile some stories to feed you while I'm celebrating Christmas, and heading out for CasinoPalooza 3.