Katie Doyle, Girl About Town

Tuesday, Feb. 18, 2003 - 6:16 p.m.

A few things.

First, I really should be doing homework, instead of inventing ways to avoid it.

Second, while out running errands this afternoon, I went by the big name gas station at the bottom of the hill, where I score my hits, and THEY WERE OUT OF TWINKIES. It was horrible. I had to settle for Hostess Chocolate Cupcakes. And while I know this incites a certain worry in the most gentle of you, my gentle readers, that I will slip back once again into the icy grasp and throes of the Cupcake Addiction, have no fear. They were *really* unsatisfying. Really. There is not the least bit of danger I will once again succomb to their siren call. They were really just so not what I wanted and tasted really sugary and sweet. Yick. The Diet Coke I washed 'em down with, on the other hand...heaven.

Third, my main errand of the day was hitting the post office, and that is mainly what this post is about, so let's get to it, shall we?

Adventures in Posting, or Really, Just Waiting in Line a Really Long Time for an Unsatisfactory Ending
So, I have this Important Government Document which absolutely must be postmarked by today. So I get in my trusty little car and head on down to the always-busy, never-cheerfully-manned post office down the way - the one where the employee was busted and convicted of opening people's mail to their creditors, taking their checks out of said mail, whiting out the creditors' names on said checks, writing in his name in the 'payable to' spot, and cashing said checks - yeah, that one, and I wait in line for what is seriously a very long time (which is normal for that particular postal establishment), merely to get a little round rubber stamped postal date/mark on my very Important Government Document which absolutely must be postmarked by today. I wait for like an hour, cheerfully minding my own business. Although, when I get to the counter where people set their stuff down while they wait in line, there's a pile of torn and discarded labels, requests for receipts, and this Priority Mail envelope addressed to Princeton University from one Peter Kasvarid (or Kasvadar or Kavsadar or Kasvasid or Kasvaris, something like that; I knew when I left the PO, but that was a coupla hours ago...I think it was actually Kasvasid). Peter's address (in Santa Barbara) and phone number (805.555.0095) were on the envelope. So I think to myself, a) Peter is a slob; b) Peter is rude; c) Peter really should be more careful about leaving his address and phone number lying around in public, a girl would almost certainly never do that; and d) if Princeton knew Peter was such a rude slob, I doubt seriously they would be inclined to accept him as a student. I had half a mind to gather up the pile of crap and mail it all back to Peter, along with a request that he learn to clean up after himself or bring his mother along everywhere he goes, but there was a gigantic line of people still to go and still behind me, and as you know, I try not to call attention to myself in public, so I opted to just leave the stuff there. I did, however, make a mental note of Peter's last name and his phone number.

While I'm waiting, a woman who was about 5 people ahead of me gets to the window with her package, and during the arduous process of mailing, asks about her package getting to its destination. So the clerk asks does she want confirmation/tracking? No, but what if it gets lost? Would she like insurance? Yes. For what value? What? What is the value of the package? $200. Okay, insurance for $200 is this much. What; why? Well, if you want to insure the $200, it costs this much to do so. Oh; okay, yes please, but what if it gets lost? Pardon? What happens if it gets lost, won't it just come back to me? I thought the little old lady in front of me was gonna pop a gasket, she was laughing so hard. The poor little clerk was completely plussed (which is the opposite of nonplussed, as you all know). I just wished my turn in line would come so I could get the heck outta there and on with the business of living my life, mundane and boring though it may be. Plus, as you know, I have a lot of homework I needed to get home to.

So then I finally get up to a window, and I give my piece of mail and a little white piece of paper called a "Receipt for Mailing" to the guy behind the 3' thick bulletproof glass (have I mentioned the postal clerks were the ones doing the actual robbery at this particular post office?), and I say "can I get this postmarked, please?"

Now, I realize I should have said "MAY I get this post marked, please," but whatever. The guy does all this punching of buttons, and starts to stick this little label on my Receipt for Mailing, and says that'll be 90 cents.

And I say oh no, I'm terribly sorry, I just want a little rubber ink stamp on there that shows today's date, and he GIVES ME MY FREAKING LETTER BACK and says "well, just mail this outside then." And I, who have never before in my entire life EVER had a postman balk at stamping my letter with his little round ink stamp, let alone flat out refuse, say but sir, this must be postmarked today, could you please just stamp it for me? And he says

"No."

He goes on to say "if you mail it today, it will get postmarked today."

And I say please, sir, this is Very Important and it HAS to be postmarked by today's date, and he says well, I'll drop it right here with the rest of the mail, and you can see me do it, can't you, and then you'll know it will get post marked. Like I am a fucking moron who has to have How Things Work explained to me like I am 5 and have never mailed a fucking letter. And like the POST OFFICE, of all pathetically inept government agencies, never makes mistakes or misplaces a single piece of mail - or, you know, psychos out and kills fellow employees. If I could have been assured I would have gotten another postal clerk, I would have gotten back in that fucking line and waited another freaking hour. But not wanting to call attention to myself, and hence *not* telling the sanctimonious prick "look, bucko, just pick up your little round date stamp and stamp the fucking letter right fucking now," I said okay and left. But on the way past the people standing in line just outside the door, I hissed "jerk" and "fucking asshole" under my breath.

Then I went out to my little car and made a phone call to Santa Barbara, because that's what I had already resolved to do. I almost didn't do it, because I thought to myself that it really wasn't fair to take my frustration on the lame postal clerk out on someone else, but I decided since I had been repeating the phone number over and over to myself in line, in order to place the call when I was finished, and since I would have placed the call even if things HAD gone my way, then it was completely fair to make it now, so long as I maintained a pleasant tone of voice and kept it clean. A receptionist answered the phone. "Hello," I said, "may I leave a message for Peter K-----?" "Would you like his voice mail?" she asked. "Why yes, that would be nice," I said, "thank you very much." So she put me thru to his voice mail, which just says that department 207 is not around. "Peter," I said, "I've just come from the post office, where you left your trash all over the counter. You are old enough to have an office job with voice mail, Peter, which certainly means you are old enough to pick up after yourself and not leave your trash for the rest of us to deal with. That's rude, Peter. I wonder if Princeton knows that's the kind of person you are. I certainly hope they discover it, and your application to Princeton is turned down. Have a nice day."

Was that the zen way, the Buddhist way? No, but it was the Katie way, and it felt damn good. Let that serve as a lesson to you, ladies and gentleman. When you leave your trash all over the place for someone else to pick up, we might not tell you what a rude, inconsiderate slob you are, but we ARE thinking it. And one or two of us might call you on it. Literally.

Mac vs. PC
In the neverending battle between macs and pc's, two more things occur which serve to cement to me the superiority of the pc. A) when I am posting on Diaryland and dip below the bottom edge of a box on my pc, the box scrolls with my text. On mac, it does not. B) when I refresh my entries on my pc, the page marks where I was and returns me to that spot; the mac takes me all the way back to the top of the page. AND, let us not forget the ability to right click.

All hail, the great and benevolent PC.

Bite me, Mac.

Bygones.

That's about it. I have to go do, like, actual homework now...unless I go to Home Depot to return the faulty tape measure I bought, and swing by Borders to pick up the copy of the book I got for Christmas but had to return because it had been vandalized in the middle, and which Borders had to reorder for me. I could do that, and squeeze another precious hour of procrastination out, at least. Oo, yeah!

Peace out,
Katie

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