I hate you USPS

I was going to single out a single branch of the USPS but then I remembered that the woman who works at the one back home is a royal bitch too and then post office in DC is a fucking nightmare and so I’m going to keep this simple.

I hate you, United States Postal Service. Despise. I’m hissing at you and trying to light you on fire with my eyes. I’m also googling whether or not it’s even legal to talk trash about you because I feel like the U.S. holds you on a this tiny, pathetic pedestal in an attempt to save you from being shut the fuck down and I’m sure I’m going to get some super serious notice about treason and being nice to postal workers but RAISE YOUR HAND IF YOU DON’T GIVE A FUCK? Mmm, pick me, pick me.

Before I get into how the postal people tried to break me and make me cry today, I will give you my initial thoughts on customer service. Having been a waitress for at least 6 years of my life, I know how important it is to smile and be nice to people while you do your job. I know that if you want respect, you need to give it. I also know that people who treat you like shit get their steaks spit on and their bread shoved in pubes, but that’s a waitressing thing. I’m not sure what the equivalent of how you’d try to screw me at the post office is but tossing my packages in the trash might be it. Anyway. This paragraph is to let you all know that I am certainly well aware of acceptable public behavior when dealing with people in the customer service/hospitality industry.

But fuck these people. Seriously. First of all, they really put in an effort about what? Three months a year during various holidays? The rest of the time you stand around with your hands down your pants, proving to the world that you laugh at the thought of a sense of urgency while selling books of stamps to old ladies that still send birthday cards. That’s in between government holidays, which are plentiful. Tough life.

So today. These motherfuckers I think are just trying to set me off. Honestly. Here is my newest POST OFFICE FAIL.

I walk in with three packages for my family (you’re welcome) that are nicely wrapped in kraft paper, my taxes AGAIN (oops, didn’t sign them) and a magazine renewal. I knew it’d take at least 45 minutes in the black hole of moving slower than death. I look around for the customs forms. Shocking, there are none. I ask the woman next to me and she says they’re out.

“Excuse me,” I say to the man at the counter while he helps someone out, “Do you have any more customs forms?” He eyes me and waits at least three minutes pretending to pretty up packages until he answers me. Then he points to the empty bin where the forms belong.
Apparently not only is he fucking toothless, he’s fucking blind.

“You’re out.” I say being very, very patient except that my head is starting to pound and my foot is trying to tap but I won’t let it.

“How many do you need?” He is clearly hoarding all of the customs forms behind his stupid weight machine and I fucking want a stack of them so I can pre-write the rest of my slips for the rest of the year so I never have to spend more than one minute in this place again EVER.

“How many can I have?” These people hang on to customs forms like the Thai place hoards their peanut sauce. Jesus FUCK, just give me what I want.

“You can only have the number of boxes you have.” He hands me three, so he obviously saw my boxes so WHY MUST YOU FUCK WITH ME?

After filling out the forms, I stand in line, not able to see because my boxes are stacked so high and my forearms are shaking. I see all three workers–Toothless Joe, Berny Mac’s cousin and the harmless one that is just hated because I hate the rest, all eye me and slightly smile because they know there’s not one thing I can do but stand there and shake around and attempt not to create a scene. I want to shank them all, I thought as I listened to them carry on about last week’s games, which I knew held a great deal of importance to them as two out of the three were wearing football jerseys like a bunch of assclowns.

When Toothless Joe took me at the counter, I smiled and asked kindly that all my packages be mailed priority.

“We ain’t taking those packages.” Awesome use of grammar and flexibility. “They got scotch tape on them.” This man was a genius.

No shit, it’s all I had to tape them with. Apparently scotch tape is a no-no and I ask for some tape.

“Could I please have some acceptable tape, then?” He was really pushing it with this tape discrimination.

“We don’t have any.”

“Well you are the post office. I find that hard to believe.”

“No.”

“So you want me to take the boxes back?” I was going to light them on fire in the parking lot if they had to leave this door.

A man standing behind him, someone a bit older and seemingly a bit nicer spoke up, “Well, she said she wanted to ship priority. Give her some priority tape.”

My savior.

I wrapped ugly priority tape all the fuck around my packages, making it especially ugly just to prove a point. About what? Hating the post office, of course.

I handed him the packages, still trying to smile and said thank you and handed him back his tape. These fuckers were not going to break me or make me get back in line behind the twenty new people who had shown up.

And then it happened.

The seemingly nice old man with the barely there white spikey hair and glistening pink head, pointed teeth and fleece vest tried to make my head explode.

“Are those flat rate packages you packed your stuff in and wrapped them in brown paper?” Well, what do we have here, Captain Nosey? I was previously unaware that this was a postal offense, probably one punishable by jail, but his tone let me know he was on to me.

“I don’t know. I didn’t wrap them all.” That was a lie, because I knew two of them were flat rate boxes and I did wrap them all. He was not going to win this battle, though. I am Ms. Fight the Man and he would be the next to fall.

“I think they’re all flat rate boxes. You need to pay the flat rate for them and you can’t hide them in brown paper.”

“Well you can’t be sure they’re all flat rate boxes and by yours you mean the USPS and I’m 100% positive that one isn’t.” I pointed to the one box I was willing to bet was not a flat rate box.

“How do you know it’s not?” He would just not fucking let this flat rate shit go. There were now twenty-five people behind me, not so silently wishing me death and he was going to have a pissing contest with me about these fucking boxes.

“Because it had champagne in it days ago and then I drank ALL OF IT and then I threw a bunch of stuff in it and wrapped it all up in the brown paper I use as a decoration, not so much a super secret flat rate box hiding device. And unless you want to unwrap all of my boxes, take out all the gifts and throw them out, I think I’ll pay the HIGHER priority price I asked for originally and we’ll call it even.”

Toothless Joe kept stamping away and wasn’t making eye contact but he’s shifty like that anyway. The bald one stared straight through me and started to get red in the face which meant I WAS WINNING.

I smiled sweetly at the toothless wonder and asked him for some Christmas stamps, preferably ones with something Christmas-y on them but when he handed me Jesus stamps, I handed them back.

“I said Christmas-y.” Then I sighed, took my receipts and left that nightmare establishment.

Fuck the post office. Seriously.

TGIF

Wooo. The weekend is finally here. This week seems like an especially long week, though I’ve done almost nothing to earn any relaxation. Well, I did mow the lawn last night, but I consider that more therapy than yardwork. I can work out some real aggression on that lawn…

Anyway. Back to my laziness.

My narcolepsy is getting out of control. Three times this week I’ve fallen asleep by 9pm and only one of those times can be blamed on day drinking wine again. Ok, so I don’t fall asleep mid conversation or while sitting up, but I’m taking napping to a new extreme. If napping were an Olympic sport, Gold Winner, right here?

Sidenote. When can we change the Olympic rankings? White gold is a better option than gold and obviously platinum is the winner. I want the new ranking to be 3. Pewter because it kind of looks dirty and third place mine as well be last place. 2. White gold, because that’s what girls get when their fiance doesn’t spring on platinum, so technically you’re kind of good enough, ALMOST, which is exactly what second place is and then 1. Platinum because you deserve a metal that most people can’t afford if you are NUMERO UNO in something INTHEWORLD.

Just my random thoughts on the outdated Olympic rewards system.
Now. Back to my random Friday. I’ve encountered three other things, outside of my outrageous narcolepsy, that are equally out of control and set me off with ease…but I’m easily set off, so I guess it’s not saying much. Let’s review them, though.
1. Teenagers. Honestly, they are all a bad lot. They are awkward and ugly and wear things that I should only be seeing on American Idol and each one thinks that only their world is ending. Between the braces and zit and uncontrollable boners and girls crying in bathrooms and the perfected looks of indifference, I just want to walk up to a group of them and be like, “Sweetheart, your world is not fucking over. Enjoy handjobs and wine coolers and smoking behind the movie theater while you can. Life becomes bullshit in about 10 years, full of responsibility you will never want, so enjoy your life filled with skateboards and Twilight movies and FYI, that look of indifference and pained angst only looks good on Rob Pattinson and you are no Rob Pattison.”

2. Foodcourts. This is where I found all the teenagers today. I should have stayed away. Foodcourts are awful. They smell like grease and they are no good if you don’t want to run into people and in this case, the one on base is filled with teenagers and white trash. Nothing good ever comes out of foodcourts. Case in point, I walked out with 760 calories swallowed right down that hatch and I can already feel my thighs expanding, so kudos to me for another brilliant lunch choice.

3. Hot water. I don’t actually hate hot water today and hot water can’t actually be out of control because it’s actually pretty controlled, being hot and all, but I hate the person that leaves the water handle thing pushed all the way to the scald the skin off your hand side because I never look and I always turn it on and shove my hands under and fuck me, I melted my hands today. So what I’m getting at is improper bathroom etiquette is out of control. Yet another reason I don’t believe in hand washing. This is 100% true. I feel like wiping your hands on your pants is enough. Germs will not kill you but I’m pretty sure boiling water can. I think.

I’d love to write more of my thoughts down for you but I’m off to drink a bevvie in the sun. I had a killer day at work and mama wants a cocktail.

Happy weekend, playas.

Top Five Scariest Things in my Life

1. Snakes: I do not like things that slither. I do not stand behind any animal that has a tongue that forks. I don’t like the looks of their little heads and I don’t like how they swallow things whole and can detach their jaws. Never trust an animal that can unhinge a jaw.
2. Midgets: It’s the limb to head to body size proportion issue that gets me. And the stumpy fingers. And the voices. And maybe that I feel like it’s weird that adults wear clothes meant for three-year olds.
3. Clowns: Fuck clowns, seriously. Not one has ever made me laugh. And how am I not supposed to think you’re a pedophile when all you want to do is perform at the party of a child? I hate the make-up. I hate the outfits. I don’t care if your nose squeaks or how many of you can fit in a car and I DO NOT WANT A FUCKING HAT MADE FROM A BALLOON.
4. Male strippers: Gross. Just really gross. Greasy, oily, orange tanned, slick haired, ugly faced, gross. Also, jamming yourself in a pleather banana hammock and tossing your hips toward me does nothing for the jage. Also, get your chest waxed and stop shaving it with a razor. I would rather go *sexless for the rest of my life than be anywhere near a male stripper.
5. Birds.

Just kidding about the birds. I just added birds so that I could use my most favorite demotivational poster ever. If this doesn’t make you laugh every time you look it, I don’t know what will.

**The part about being sexless was a total lie used only to express my extreme hatred for male strippers.

***The rambling in this post was only written so I could post my most favorite demotivational poster ever.

I’m gonna come at you like a spider monkey

So I was having a conversation with a friend a week or two ago about silverback gorillas and how beautiful they are (his opinion, not mine) and it reminded me that I have very strong feelings about monkeys and I also have them all ranked by type and I have thoughts about them being allowed to have sex at the zoo during business hours. So, since I am just lying around on the couch waiting for my strawberry rhubarb crumble to finish cooking (yes, I am practicing all things domestic this weekend), let’s talk monkeys.

And, since we’re talking monkeys now, “Chip, I’m gonna come at you like a spider monkey!” Is one of my most favorite movie quotes. And not shocking, I have been known to say it and then yeah, attack someone. Strictly friends, though, so it’s pretty harmless.

So back to my ranking system. It’s not really too elaborate, because I think I can only name 4 types of monkeys. Two I love, two I hate.

1. The Spider Monkey. The best monkey in the jungle. Seriously. This monkey has a cute face, has been known to wear hats of the bell hop nature, is quick as fuck and claps a lot. I’m not talking about those yellow ones, though. I think that’s a different type of small and quick monkey. In fact, we’re adding yellow, creepy monkey to my list below.

2. The chimpanzee.

Adorable. I want one as an assistant.

The cutest monkey. This used to be my favorite monkey until Michael Jackson got all creepy with it and then I couldn’t get over it because I’d be at the zoo and I’d see one and then I’d have to think about Neverland Ranch and weirdo pop stars with gloves that glitter and harems of tiny boys in PJS and none of that has anything to do with how fucking CUTE chimps are and screw you Michael Jackson for ruining almost everything I’ve ever loved about monkeys. I will note that I also do not find it funny when I see chimps smoking OR attempting to solve calculus problems, which I have seen both. Only people are allowed to smoke and let’s leave the calculus to the Asians. The world is better that way.

This shit pisses me off. So does the fact that they match.


3. Yellow, creepy monkey. I just don’t think yellow is a great color for a monkey. I mean look at the thing. He just screams fucking bizarro and I don’t like the way he’s staring right at us. He may seem harmless, but I doubt it.

That look is all, I will eat your babies when you're not looking.


3. The orangutan. To be clear, I’m not referring to the baby version. The baby version of anything is cute and entertaining. In fact, when I found this picture, it reminded of my sister when she was like two or three. That bitch didn’t grow hair until she was five and in the meantime, she kinda looked like this:

Only the hair looks like 3 yr old Katie. Adult Katie is going to kick my ass.

Anyway, the adult Orangutan is the saddest, most worthless monkey. I go to the zoo to enjoy myself. By the time I make it to this monkey’s pen, I am usually on a “I just saw a lion” high and then WHAM. This moon-faced beast has to go and look all depressed and indifferent and just fucking exhausted by life and ugh, monkeys are not supposed to MAKE ME FEEL BADLY.
Also, this monkey has Donald Trump hair. I can not support that.

4. The gorilla. I don’t care which kind. I hate them all. They are nasty, perverted beasts and they are too smart for their own good. I don’t even like looking those jerks in the eye because I just know they are plotting something. In fact, I’m not posting a picture of one because it’ll just set me the fuck off. I will tell you a little story, though, which will make you understand why I do not like the gorilla.

So one day in DC, I’m taking some random relative to the zoo. That’s what you do when you’re in DC. You bring everyone to every goddamned monument in the city and then you bring them to the zoo, primarily for the pandas, but everyone always wants to go in the monkey house. So there we are, in the monkey house. It’s raining outside, so all the monkeys are in and behind the glass, racing around and swinging from ropes, picking and eating fleas off each other and eating straw. It’s very busy in the monkey house and I have no idea who was with me, but I remember they were tickled. I was only tickled because there were two baby gorillas that were new and the babies are the best.

Because I was interested in the baby gorillas, I took a seat on the bench and let whoever was with me wander around and look at all the different types. I was content watching the two young ones hit each other on the head and then race off, swing off a rope and then bounce on a larger, less than thrilled looking relative. I would go as far to say that I was delighted by all this until out of NOWHERE, I saw the large, male gorilla out of the corner of my eye stand up and walk a bit into my eye sight and then make some commotion at another large one, which come to find out had a monkey vagina. So he’s all pointing at her and making some noises that were more aggressive than they needed to be at 2pm in the afternoon and oh dear god, then he ruined my life that day BY BENDING HER OVER AND GIVING IT TO HER iN FRONT OF ME. I say in front of me because the worst part wasn’t even that he was doing that other monkey in front of me like he was up for some monkey porn award. I say it because the whole time, his head was turned TOWARD ME and he stared RIGHT INTO MY EYES THE WHOLE TIME.

I’m not making this shit up. I was so horrified and angry that I had to keep looking at him so I could be sure he was really looking at me so that then I could at least hate him for a good reason. I’m not fucking kidding. He should have just pointed right at me and winked. Between that and the fact that Lady Gorilla was just all, faster, faster, let’s get this over with, UNINTERESTED, was just traumatizing. I mean, Christ. People were walking their kids off fast, middle-aged hags were gasping and covering their eyes and I just stood there with my mouth open, resisting the urge to take off towards him and then body slam him from the other side of the glass. No one gets all fucky, fucky in front of me, WHILE LOOKING ME IN THE EYE, and gets away with it. Monkeys included.

And what’s the worst part? He was so fucking proud of himself. I could just tell.

Well, now that I’m bullshit about monkeys again, let’s make a list of things my spider monkey would do for me if I had one around as a friend/assistant.
1. He would hop up and down and clap in place when I am excited.
2. He could obviously gauge my moods. Hopping when happy, breakdancing when I’m upset.
3. He would know how to pour wine and make gin and tonics.
4. He would walk Moxie. Or, BETTER, ride Moxie around on her back.
5. He would obviously sleep in my bed and brush my hair with his baby fingers while I read books.
6. Hopefully he’d know gymnastics so he could entertain my friends.
7. He would high-five me when we agree on something we think is awesome.
8. He would give the finger to anyone I despise. That way, they’d leave us alone and be confused b/c it would be kind of charming.
9. He would sharpen all my pencils for me.
10. He would suck his thumb because that would probably just be cute to watch from the couch.

I can’t think of anything else I’d need a monkey for right now, but if I do, I’ll do a follow-up post.

So. There you have it. My extended thoughts on monkeys.

Top Ten Beverages

My next collector of dust.

I’m maxing out on the relaxation today and can only bring my myself to write about juice and juice-like beverages that do not qualify as soda or dairy.  My desire to discuss juice  is primarily because I spent all morning drinking suck ass crystal light and the hated water until I couldn’t stand it anymore.  The black Riesling girls lunch we had yesterday set me back into a world of sand in mouth and I sat around for hours trying to convince Moxie to get in the damned car and buy me some juice.  No such luck.  And so, when I was borderline dying, I drove to the store and made my Mr. H rate his favorite juices and then argued about why he was wrong and why my juices were better.   So here’s what I came up with.

Framboise. Obviously.  Speaking of, my friend Frederic is taking way too long shipping me juice from France.  Damn him.

Gatorade in either orange, yellow or fruit punch.  Yellow I think being lemon lime, but I can’t be 100% sure.

V8 Splash, Tropical.  I will never, EVER be bothered with drinking the original V8.  You would have to tie me to something and force it down my throat and I would still fight you.  God I hate that stuff.  The smell makes my skin itch. 

Apple, on ice.  I’m very particular about this. I also prefer to drink apple juice at top speed, which then leads to illness.  Still makes the list, though.

Orange pineapple, Tropicana, no pulp.  I hate pulp. 

Ecto Cooler.  Like I would ever leave that off the list.

Orangina, which is more juice than soda.  And the bubbles make it refreshing.

Pago Erdbeere, which I just discovered today and I LOVE.  It’s like a whole bunch of smashed up strawberries, but very ripe strawberries, minus the seeds.  I’m glad I’m never moving back to the States because we do not have these juices at home.

Cran grape.  Cran anything, actually.  Except just cranberry, because stand alone cran dries out my mouth and sends the jage into a tizzy thinking it’s UTI season.

Pineapple.  In small but delicious doses. 

My health would probably be much better if I loved fruit as much as I do love juice.  Which reminds me that I could rank my favorite fruits now, since I have nothing better to do.

1. Strawberries.  My most favorite.  Best when already sliced up.

2. Cherries.  I would love to know why they’re $6/pound here.  That makes no sense to me.

3. Pineapple

4. Blueberries

5. Tomatoes and avocados.  Two in one line because I’m not thrilled that they’re fruits.  I prefer these two to be considered vegetables but considering I have no legit reason, I will refrain from blabbing on and on about it. 

Fruits I do not enjoy are:

1. Apples.  Unless they are sliced and have salt on them which makes them tolerable.  

2. Melon.  I despise melon.

3. Dragon fruit.  While it looks pleasant and exotic, it’s stupid. 

In case anyone wondered, I am indifferent about bananas but very pro banana bread.  Furthermore, I’m now considering buying  a juicer, though I’ll use it once and get bored, but considering today is the start to my new health kick, it’s not like it’s going to make me more black on the insides.

But then again, I love milk and ginger ale more than any of the juices above so the smarter investment is in cases of Canada Dry.  Consider it done.