I would love to admire the post office and its workers. After all, my beloved Grandpa who died in 2005 was a retired post office worker. I like to be supportive of those systems.
I would also like to note that I am really put together. I know how to act. I am really, really, really (not a lie) classy. I have great manners.
However, Yesterday I lost control.
I have been waiting patiently for my mail for nearly two weeks. I submitted a change of address from my apt to parent's house (a 15 mile drive, that's right 15 miles). I received a "confirmation" on August 7th. Mail is only supposed to take 7-10 postal business days to arrive. Considering I live within the same city and so close it should be faster.
On Friday I called. I was put on hold and waited. My request was in the "system," but no mail in my box.
On Saturday I called (again). This time I spoke to the head at the University post office. He looked around to make sure my mail was not there and then sent someone to check my old mail box. Nothing. He assured me that my mail would be in my hands Monday.
Yesterday (being at home, without a job, and a car... acting a bit crazy nonetheless and still on my magic pills) I spied the carrier. I ran around from the side of the house (in oversized sweats sans makeup plus wet hair, it was a sight!) I held out my hand, waiting for my bundle of very, very late (and important) mail.
"Is my mail there? I moved and it's been several days. They said I would get it today."
(looking in bag and paging through regular mail) "hm, no."
(the fire started burning inside me) "but... Robbie at University Station said I would have my mail today."
"Well I don't know what to tell you."
Ahhhh.
So then I called the post office here and spoke with the "manager" (after being on hold for 20 minutes). He gave me the run around. No one wanted to take responsibility for my mail. They don't know where it is... He was very rude and started to get patronizing. I don't "do" patronizing.
Then. I. Lost. Control:
"Well, F***K you!"
Eeeek. Classy. I know. For the record I have never done that before. I've thought it, but saying it was a different story.
The result is me (drugged up) and hysterical on the phone with my mom crying about my mail. "I just waaa nnnn ttt my mail!" My mascara is running, we march back to the post office where we encounter the "manager" I just serenaded with the f-bomb. Mom did all the talking, because Lord knows, I had certainly talked enough. And who knows what would of come out of my mouth then. Because (and this is my fault for swearing in the first place) he gave her the run around. However, I can be confident that he would of done that regardless. Mom got his supervisor's # and we left. Later, she called and we managed to sort some of it out.
That Creole temper likes to flair once and a while. And combine that with my lovely stubborn disposition, do I feel bad? Nope (at least not yet).
As a result I am feeling like a crazy person in my very smelly (they are putting coats on the wood floors today) house. It is rainy. I am still on drugs. And now I drop f-bombs when I am angry (usually I just utilize a mental hex).
And you can imagine what my morning prayer was like, too.
You learn something about yourself everyday.
