I finally snapped last night and cleaned/organized every corner of my office, including the random of boxes of “stuff”. I went through my bookshelves and decided I was never going to learn Flash, so all the books were wasting precious shelf space. I put them all on Amazon. Well, one of them already sold this morning, and that’s when my troubles with the US Postal Service began. Following is a true story of an ordinary person trying to ship a package:

Amazon only provides a $2.60 shipping credit, so it’s necessary to ship Media Mail. I called the local post office to verify some things, and I was told usps.com could take care of all my needs. Well, an hour goes by scouring their website for what I need. The click n’ ship didn’t offer media mail as an option. I made it as far as determining my rate for media mail, but never did I discover a way to pay for that postage online. They mention eBay offers Media Mail label printing *a glimmer of hope* but alas, the feature only appears for items sold on eBay.

Angry & frustrated, I lose faith in the web and pack up to head to the post office. I check the address in the mover’s guide that was sent to me when i moved. It conflicted with where I thought the post office was but I blindly trusted them. Quick mapquest and I’m on my way. I paced Cumberland Ave at least 5 or 6 times. Seems many buildings in that area think it unwise to have signs outside. I saw some postal service trucks in a fenced area but no building that looked like an office. I finally stopped at a bank next door to ask if I were blind. The teller wasn’t from this side of town but did clear up that the address I had was for the distribution center. Thank you, mover’s guide. Another lady gave me directions and of course, turns out the post office was where I initially thought it was.

By this point, there’s been a lot of cursing, screaming, and speeding. I make my way to the actual post office, walk in with my mind racing and the single desire to scream, “I just want to FUCKING ship this little box media mail, can anyone here do that?!?” Rather, I walked around aimlessly, looking lost and hopeless. I cautiously approached a counter where the man was saying “Hey I’m gonna….*sees me* help this lovely lady”

And like every story of misguided, frustrated souls, it must end with an awkward, completely fucked up closing. Conversation between myself (M) and postal service worker, Alan (A), follows:

A: What can I do for you?
M: I need to ship this media mail. *hands over amazon box & sheet w/ address*
A: I think I can do that. Mindy? Is this your name? We can use that for the return label.
M: Yes, it is
A: It’s a lovely name. I have a cousin named Mindy. She would watch me when I was little and I had a crush on her, but I don’t anymore because she’s my cousin…
M: oh hmm
A: I bet you have a lot of people with a crush on you (or something like that)
M: Oh yes, I have a long line
A: Really?
M: No
A: Ah, you’re supposed to keep the story going. Well you can consider me first in line if that will help your self-esteem
M: umm ok. Sure thing.
A: That will be $2.68. I don’t think my daughter would be happy, because she’s 18 and would think you’re a little close to her age
M: *slowly backing away* umm ha heh…yeah…well, thanks for your help
A: You’re welcome. Come back anytime. Don’t let me scare you away
M: Yeah…sure. *practically out the door*

There’s a fine line between being nice and being creepy. Alan not only smudged in to that line, he stepped & stomped on it, and proceeded to run a mile past it.

Error #1: Don’t tell strangers you had a crush on your cousin.

Error #2: Don’t flirt with people who could be your daughter. It’s wrong & weird on many levels.

And so, as I drive home, not sure whether I’m still angry or just traumatized, I turn to a classic rock station and try to find my happy place. I sang along to On the Road Again...“You know the first time I went out in the rain and snow…in the rain and snow,” and it was all quite appropriate for the current weather.

I just needed one last attack of the gas pedal to feel better, but I was the caboose in a train of law abiding citizens. So in between lyrics, I chanted, “Please let me waste some expensive gas,” but no one listened. I did the best I could in the subdivision. There’s just something about feeling the engine growling and shifting gears that really makes me feel better. That gas pedal is the key to the most force an average human could ever hope to exert. It’s power and it feels good when you’ve had a long, strange, and aggravating day.

And I’ve thus decided: “This was not worth $21.”