Going Postal

Something is going on at the Post Office. I fear they are transitioning over to the TSA rulebook. Every time I go in there lately I find myself involved in some kind of altercation. Or I just about have a seizure trying NOT to get involved in some kind of  altercation - sometimes it's all I can do to get my darn package consigned and get out. It shouldn't be so hard.

First I noticed you couldn't simply hand your goods over and have them sent. Oh no. You had to decline at least 3 or 4 extra cost options. Okay fine. But wouldn't it make a lot more sense if the person behind the counter spoke reasonably fluent English so they wouldn't have to ask every customer the same 3 or 4 questions two or three times? Seems like speaking English that people can comprehend should be a job requirement. But obviously it's not. 

What DOES seem to be a job requirement is imperturbable bull dog tenacity towards enforcing arcane rules and standards composed of mostly clerical-oriented minutia. They are very, very, very capable in this area. That, and that uncanny internal time clock they have that tells them when to take a break. Or maybe that's just based on the number of people in line.

So I managed to get in and out of there this week without getting arrested. It was quite an accomplishment. 

When I got there, 5 people were ahead of me in line. At one of the windows, a clerk was disassembling some guy's envelope because he hadn't applied the label holder sleeve properly. 5 people later, when I finally get to a window, he's still working on it, along with the accompanying lecture - in fractured English. 

My neighbor to my left is being quizzed about the contents of the small box he's trying to mail. "Some toys" he says, "for my nephew."

"That's not what the box says," the clerk replies. He must be some kind of genius, the printing on the box sides says paper towels. "If those aren't the contents you have to cross off all the writing."

The guy starts to protest "What does it matter? You can clearly see the address on top where there is no extra printing."

Take it or leave it, so he goes away to cross off the paper towel-related printing with a Post Office issued marker. He returns, but gets sent back to "do it better." I feel a sympathy seizure coming on.

My turn. I give my professional irritator my card for a package pick up. She hands it back. "I do that last." I take a deep breath. Ok. I ask her about my flag stamps - are these the forever ones? They resemble them, but not quite. 

No, I need to buy about 80 one-cent stamps then. When I bought stamps a month ago could they have sold me the forever ones? No, of course not, how would they torment me later?

Then I give her my 2 international packages. She spends a few minutes examining the customs forms, shoves one back, I forgot to write the date in 1 of 2 places. I hold my breath hoping she won't have a problem with my taping job. It passes. 

NOW, it's ok to give her the package pick up card. I have to present my photo ID and she spends a minute comparing it to the card and to me. I'm wondering about this level of scrutiny? Do people actually ship contraband through the mail? She disappears, returns with my envelope and asks me to sign and print my name on a card. Then she wants me to do it again - electronically. So I do. She inspects my work, I didn't print my name clearly enough.

We have a stare down. I'm in a superior position - I already HAVE my package. I tell her "you've got to be kidding me. No. Not doing it again. I'm done here." And I leave. 

That's my 42 cents worth.