:::Bureaucrats strike again:::
Part two of the wallet debacle.
---->
I love my parents. Sometimes, even when it seems like they want me to
do this living on my own, out of their state even, grow up and use
the skills we harnessed into you and take over the world type of
thing--like they're throwing me to the wolves...
but I told them about the bandits who took my goods and so my mother,
the ever caring woman and perpetual mother as though I am 9, sent me
some money and some ID crap I had at home, to verify my name and age
and what not. She sent it "express mail" and so after two
days, i assumed that it was coming. Who really relies on the postal
service anymore, anyway?
Of course I don't really know when my mail is delivered and its not
like I would really sit and wait anyway, but when I got home the
other evening, sure enough, there was a little notice saying that
they'd "missed me"
Along with the check marks and scribbled handwriting, there was at
least three different times of day written. They were all fairly
indiscriminate.
One, I assumed, was the time I could pick it up, one maybe when the
express mail placed closed, and one where the carrier may stop by
again.
I decided to take the initiative after taking some time off to use my
last day off and walk my tail down to one of the more illustrious of
our governmental offices.
My mother had told me that the package was marked "express"
and "fragile" and it was in a large white parcel, as though
the mail in Chicago was all stored in one massive space so otherwise
useless description would be absolutely essential, to weed through
all the parcels in this neverland of postage.
That wasn't the case. When I went into the building, situated right
by Gramaphone and that McDonalds, and apparently going to be across
from a new Best Buy (heavens), I didn't know what to expect.
I can, however, tell you who I didn't expect:
This woman named Laisha.
Large doesn't even begin to describe not just her physical state but
her emotional demeanor as well.
I handed her the slip, content on knowing that if I just kept
smiling, well, maybe i'd get the softer side of an open from
8:30am-12:30pm operation.
The first thing she says is (grunting/sighting)="this ain't
here."
I just stood there, opened mouthed, and asked her, where it
was...if.not.at.the.locale.stamped.like20timesontheminisculepieceofpaper!
She just stared at me, pushed the slip back, and hollerer at her
counterpart, a skinnier version of Laisha.
She went on to say with oh so much sass that she doesn't know why it
says that this place is open until 12:30, "cause we done close
at 12noon."
Skinny nodded in agreement.
WEll, seeing as it was 10am, I didn't know why that was relevant but
I knew at this point that i had to pick my battles carefully.
She points to one of the many times scribbled on this tiny slip of
brown paper and says "you were supposed to come at 930. The
carrier has it now, and I don't know when they be's gettin' to
it."
Dismissed.
Just then, a young urban professional, aka UrbanAlphaMale, walks in
with his coach key chain or something and demands to know where his
mail is. A mother walks in with the same inquiry and Laisha just ain'
t havin' any of it.
"Well, it TAKES up to 14 days and I bet you didn't even fill out
that change ofa ddress form now did you?"
The woman says no, the man, yes, and actually, he did that two weeks
prior to even moving.
Stumped, she comes back to me, standing off to the side, as I am
trying to figure out how to stake out my building and yet still
function within the day, to get this package in my little mitts.
She says, "hm. WEll. I SUPPOSE I could go check to see if the
carrier is still here..."
She trails off and commands Skinny to go back and check...there was
no way she was moving from that swivel chair which also doubled as a
thrown.
She then prepares to get into a verbal frenzy with UrbanAlphaMale.
I wanted to put some wagers on who was going to throw the first punch
when I hear Skinny, or whom I assume is Skinny, holler and begin to
laugh from the mysterious back room (where all packages really are,
we all know this) and...she walks out and says
"Look what has happened to this..."
Shes like kicking it out the door.
And apparently it's mine.
Its all wrinkled and somehow four times as small as it is supposed to
be, as it was apparently shrink wrapped for time travel, even though
it was only shipped across states.
I just stared. All I and Urbanalphamale one could see was the big red
letters reading "FRAGILE" across it. Just laughing at us in
the irony of it all.
I just stared. Laisha begins to laugh as well, a laugh that is twice
the size of Skinny, and the Urbanalphamale says, and this is
not a lie: (exaggerates sigh, looks Laisha in the eye, and takes off
his sunglasses, finally):
"You know, I bet you could file suit for that."
And the world continues to make sense again.
Part two of the wallet debacle.
---->
I love my parents. Sometimes, even when it seems like they want me to
do this living on my own, out of their state even, grow up and use
the skills we harnessed into you and take over the world type of
thing--like they're throwing me to the wolves...
but I told them about the bandits who took my goods and so my mother,
the ever caring woman and perpetual mother as though I am 9, sent me
some money and some ID crap I had at home, to verify my name and age
and what not. She sent it "express mail" and so after two
days, i assumed that it was coming. Who really relies on the postal
service anymore, anyway?
Of course I don't really know when my mail is delivered and its not
like I would really sit and wait anyway, but when I got home the
other evening, sure enough, there was a little notice saying that
they'd "missed me"
Along with the check marks and scribbled handwriting, there was at
least three different times of day written. They were all fairly
indiscriminate.
One, I assumed, was the time I could pick it up, one maybe when the
express mail placed closed, and one where the carrier may stop by
again.
I decided to take the initiative after taking some time off to use my
last day off and walk my tail down to one of the more illustrious of
our governmental offices.
My mother had told me that the package was marked "express"
and "fragile" and it was in a large white parcel, as though
the mail in Chicago was all stored in one massive space so otherwise
useless description would be absolutely essential, to weed through
all the parcels in this neverland of postage.
That wasn't the case. When I went into the building, situated right
by Gramaphone and that McDonalds, and apparently going to be across
from a new Best Buy (heavens), I didn't know what to expect.
I can, however, tell you who I didn't expect:
This woman named Laisha.
Large doesn't even begin to describe not just her physical state but
her emotional demeanor as well.
I handed her the slip, content on knowing that if I just kept
smiling, well, maybe i'd get the softer side of an open from
8:30am-12:30pm operation.
The first thing she says is (grunting/sighting)="this ain't
here."
I just stood there, opened mouthed, and asked her, where it
was...if.not.at.the.locale.stamped.like20timesontheminisculepieceofpaper!
She just stared at me, pushed the slip back, and hollerer at her
counterpart, a skinnier version of Laisha.
She went on to say with oh so much sass that she doesn't know why it
says that this place is open until 12:30, "cause we done close
at 12noon."
Skinny nodded in agreement.
WEll, seeing as it was 10am, I didn't know why that was relevant but
I knew at this point that i had to pick my battles carefully.
She points to one of the many times scribbled on this tiny slip of
brown paper and says "you were supposed to come at 930. The
carrier has it now, and I don't know when they be's gettin' to
it."
Dismissed.
Just then, a young urban professional, aka UrbanAlphaMale, walks in
with his coach key chain or something and demands to know where his
mail is. A mother walks in with the same inquiry and Laisha just ain'
t havin' any of it.
"Well, it TAKES up to 14 days and I bet you didn't even fill out
that change ofa ddress form now did you?"
The woman says no, the man, yes, and actually, he did that two weeks
prior to even moving.
Stumped, she comes back to me, standing off to the side, as I am
trying to figure out how to stake out my building and yet still
function within the day, to get this package in my little mitts.
She says, "hm. WEll. I SUPPOSE I could go check to see if the
carrier is still here..."
She trails off and commands Skinny to go back and check...there was
no way she was moving from that swivel chair which also doubled as a
thrown.
She then prepares to get into a verbal frenzy with UrbanAlphaMale.
I wanted to put some wagers on who was going to throw the first punch
when I hear Skinny, or whom I assume is Skinny, holler and begin to
laugh from the mysterious back room (where all packages really are,
we all know this) and...she walks out and says
"Look what has happened to this..."
Shes like kicking it out the door.
And apparently it's mine.
Its all wrinkled and somehow four times as small as it is supposed to
be, as it was apparently shrink wrapped for time travel, even though
it was only shipped across states.
I just stared. All I and Urbanalphamale one could see was the big red
letters reading "FRAGILE" across it. Just laughing at us in
the irony of it all.
I just stared. Laisha begins to laugh as well, a laugh that is twice
the size of Skinny, and the Urbanalphamale says, and this is
not a lie: (exaggerates sigh, looks Laisha in the eye, and takes off
his sunglasses, finally):
"You know, I bet you could file suit for that."
And the world continues to make sense again.