More Adventures in Postage

I have the strangest experiences at the post office. Now, I love my postal workers -- they are the bomb -- but I have some really weird experiences AT the post office. Like the night the postage machine was possessed. Like the time I was standing in line and a little old lady drove her car right into the building.

So I went to the post office yesterday, to try to mail over a week's worth of shipping that had gotten delayed by some emergent happenings around the house. I even came home from camping to do the shipping -- that is how determined I was to get it done. So I had something like 11 packages to mail, and was happy to see when I got to the post office that there were actually some available parking spaces.

Keep in mind that this post office is really busy. It's one of a few in Indianapolis that do passports, so it gets more business than most. And the parking lot is a lesson in defensive driving. It has two routes, but neither are marked. Well, maybe three. You can drive straight in and park to the left of the building (the most safe option). You can turn right and STAY right and go to the drive thru mailbox area, then get the heck outta dodge. This is also a safe option, though it can get really irritating if you get behind someone who doesn't understand how a mailbox works. The exit is where this one gets tricky (more in a minute). The third option can be a little scary: turn right in the entrance, but stay to the left, and try to snag a parking place. This is tricky because if someone is backing out, they're gonna back right into you. And when you go to back out of your space, you can do the same, or get hit by someone who's too busy looking for a space instead of watching for you.

Keep in mind that options 2 and 3 exit the parking lot in the same place, so that's tricky too, because they merge together into two lanes. One is supposed to be a left turn lane only on the left, and right turn on the right side. People tend to go crazy getting here, and tend to want to be on the opposite side of where they are entering: parking lot people entering from the left want to be on the right when they leave, and vice versa. It's a little Keystone Kops, but most people can do it ok, with a little patience. Still, I've seen just about everything happen, until yesterday, which totally took the cake.

I was getting my packages out of the car when a lady in a tiny little car zipped IN through the EXIT, with a car coming from the mailbox lane, and an SUV coming from the parking lot. Drove against the traffic -- this is a NARROW space) and turned the wheel hard to pop into the parking space that the SUV was going for, narrowly missing them. Now, I don't usually confront strangers in parking lots, but I have had an awful week, and she irritated me. As in REALLY irritated me. So here's the exchange between us:

Me: "You know, this parking lot doesn't need any help with having accidents."

Her: 'Excuse me?"

Me: "You know, this parking lot doesn't need any help with having accidents."

Her: "Well, I was in a hurry, because the post office closes at noon."

Me: "The post office closes on Saturdays at 2:30, and you almost caused an accident."

Her: "I have an M.B.A."

Seriously? What? What the hell is THAT supposed to mean? You have an M.B.A., so you can drive like an idiot? Well, I have a nursing license, and after the week I've had, I'm liable to leave you bleeding on the ground if you pull something that stupid and then cause an accident. Ok, well, not really, but man, was I irritated. This, coming from a probably 60yo with a little blonde ponytail, who was wearing ACID WASHED SWEATS. Acid washed in a lacy pattern, no less. I didn't even know you could get acid washed sweats, and quite frankly, I could've gone to my grave not needing to see them. Add to that that at first I thought she had on platform tennis shoes, till I realized that she had on those "make your butt better" Sketchers, and I no longer had any use for anything she had to say.

She walked into the post office still happily muttering about how she wouldn't have rushed if she'd known they were up, completely unaware of my total disdain for her. She had an MBA all right -- my bitchy attitude.

I need to start shipping from home. The post office is clearly not a positive experience for me.

Minnesota or bust

Every once in a while, I have a package in the custody of the USPS go AWOL. I'm not sure what they do with them, but I push 'em across the counter and they go into the great beyond. I'm also a firm believer that some transactions with customers are just cursed.

So I had a cute little swimsuit pattern that wanted to go to Minnesota a couple of weeks ago. Where it is now, I'll never know, but apparently it changed its mind en route, because it's not been seen again. After a couple of emails between me and my customer, I decided it best to send her a new copy. And in trying to really have my act together, decided to mail it tonight.

Now, I live in Indianapolis, not too far from downtown, where there is a self service post office that's open 24/7. I try to go down there whilst the light is still out, but I tend to be there in the evening nonetheless, so I always try to take a male presence with me, like Dan. Or Thomas. Or even Seth. Well, tonight, Dan was otherwise occupied, so I decided to go by myself -- something I haven't done in a long time. It's kind of nice to have a second person there when you're mailing a lot of stuff, because it gets a little cumbersome otherwise. Dan and I (and Seth, for that matter) have a system down that goes like clockwork, so we get in and out pretty fast. There was even one night where we had a little tutorial with a newbie who was mailing a ton of stuff.

Well, the system went out the window tonight, because I was flying solo. No biggie, right? Well, I put the first package on the scale. Went through the steps, all the way to the stamp coming out. Only the stamp didn't come out. Just one little corner of it stuck out -- not enough to grab on to. The dilemma.......if I did it wrong, the stamp was going right back into the machine, to the tune of $8.50 or so. So, I did the prudent thing and used my credit card to try to coax it loose. That promptly sent it in further, so I got out my work ID, which is thinner than the credit card. POOF! The whole stinkin' stamp disappeared.

This was right about the time that a man walked in and gave me a very strange look. Now keep in mind, I am not a small person, and I am pale as a ghost. I was standing there in my ratty old short white shorts, a zip front short sleeve hoodie (new, at least), and Dan's flip flops, with my iPod ear buds in my ears, listening to Green Day at full tilt. And I was dancing, more than a little, because who can listen to Green Day and not dance? (Note to self, perhaps dancing caused the inverted stamp. Don't dance at the post office.) Anyway, said gentleman asked what was going on, as he put his mail into the box. He already had stamps. He suggested that I put a key in the machine and maybe that would work.

I think he wanted me to die, because I'm thinking that putting a metal key into an electronic device while it's plugged in is not the best idea. Maybe he was a serial killer. Or a cannibal.

I was seriously unhappy because the machine wouldn't let me cancel the transaction, which meant I was charged almost $9, but I couldn't get the stamp I paid for. Finally, in walked a guy in a security outfit, who asked what was going on. He got out a penlight and somehow got the machine open enough to free that stamp, then wandered off. I was pretty sure he was the stereotypical "friendly" security guard from the movies, who comes back and kills you and carts you off in pieces, but he never came back. He had a bag of chips in his back pocket. Maybe he waits till after dinner to kill people, but he got me my stamp, so I was happy. Even if I wasn't dancing at this point.

One package down. Next, I had to mail a package that contained Jill's birthday presents to her boyfriend (YAY! Apparently she's not going to be a cat lady after all!). That went without a hitch. Whew! Maybe I'd get home in one piece after all, but it was getting dark and I wanted to get the heck outta dodge. Next package was one pattern, going to a person in Burbank, California who, from what I can tell, does indie films. Maybe it's for a movie, I don't know, but the package deserved its own plot, because once again, the eject button wasn't working and the stamp didn't bother to emerge at all. And a metal door flipped down in front of where it was supposed to come out, like some kind of force field that says "not tonight, lady." The monitor assured me that I was not being charged for the transaction, despite the fact that the machine was now out of order. Good God. And I still hadn't mailed the Minnesota swimsuit that was the whole reason for me being at the post office in the first place.

I was mulling over my dilemma when in walked a lady wearing jeans shorts, a decent tan, and orange Crocs. I got no small amount of satisfaction in knowing that at least if I was gonna die, I wasn't gonna die in orange Crocs. And I was gonna die listening to Green Day. I could see the headline: "Braless albino woman dies, clinging to self serve machine, while 'Do You Know the Enemy played on her iPod." Irony. Yep, that'd be me. I told the orange shoe lady that the machine said it was now out of order, because I was trying to be helpful and not let her go through the problems I'd had.

She walked right up, got two sheets of stamps, then looked at me like I was an American Idiot, and strode outta the post office. Good heavens. I decided to try again, this time starting with that swimsuit pattern, against which I was planning to win the war. That package was going to Minnesota, come hell or high water. I got all the way through the process and held my breath. The stamp came out with just enough of a corner sticking out that I could grab it.

I put it on the wrong envelope.

Had to go back and print another stamp for Minnesota, then figure out how to get the postage right for the other package without paying for the whole thing. I only needed 17 cents, for heaven's sake, because I'd already put $2.07 on the envelope. I had to give myself a tutorial on how to print partial postage from the machine, but I finally got it done and went out of there as fast as I could, because I really just wanted to get home. Got to the car right as a man got out of his car across the parking lot. The now dark parking lot. Be careful, I was thinking, because although I'm not a truly paranoid person like some of my friends, I am careful. I was thinking to myself, "he's on crutches, and Ted Bundy used to use crutches to rope 'em in, so wouldn't that be crazy if he is faking it. And I don't have my cell phone, so there will be no pinging of my phone to trace my lifeless body when I'm lying in a ditch somewhere."

I probably need therapy.

It was right about then that I realized that the guy was probably about 80. He was also missing a leg. Yep. Legless serial killer. I wonder if that would be a first. And I wonder -- could Ted Bundy have figured out a way to fake an amputation? I was still pondering that one when I cranked up the Gaga and took off for home.

Next time I need to go to the post office, someone's going with me. And let's hope that the swimsuit makes it to Minnesota, cause I'm not sure I can go through this mess again.