I came home after running some errands to this wonderful postal note attached to my mailbox: Sorry we missed you, you had a package, but now you have to go to the Big scary Building on the other side of the base to pick it up. Loser.

Ok, so it wasn’t worded exactly like, that, but that was the gist of it.

I wasn’t pissed off, but a little torqued—after all, the mail usually doesn’t get here until after 2 pm, and this was at noon. And I really don’t like going over to that building. It’s huge, there are guards with guns, and finding a place to park is like finding a virgin in Southern California.

But, whatever…I knew I’d have to go, and there was no point in getting worked up about it. So I dragged the pieces of the Christmas tree out, and started to assemble it (figuring if I did that, then the Spouse Thingy could string lights, something at which I totally suck.) I listened to CNN Headlines on TV while I worked, and forgot about it.

At one o’clock there was a loud knocking on the door (loud because, perhaps, I have a note on the door stating Knock Loud, Doorbell Not Working.)

It was the mailman. He came back to see if someone was home yet, so that I wouldn’t have to make the trip to the Big Scary Building tomorrow.


And this was after having stood in line at the post office with a bunch of other people, all of whom were initially perturbed at the short perky blonde who just waltzed in and went directly to the head of the line—it was my turn at the counter, dammit! Why couldn’t she freaking wait???

She showed a receipt to the clerk and said “I was here about ten minutes ago. I didn’t get charged for the box I put my stuff in and I’d like to pay for it.”

Last year a woman held the line up with a temper tantrum over the price of an envelope she’d already written on. This year someone went out of the way to come back and pay the $3.75 the clerk missed the first time around.


‘Tis the season after all, I guess.

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