through rain or sleet or snow or control issues

Have I shared my stories about our local post office staff here in Jax with everybody yet? No? It's time.

Twice now I have had a run-in with a postal employee in the local post office. And when I say "run-in", I mean, he acted like a jerk and I did nothing about it (except send mental daggers his way). The Libra definition, if ever there was.

The first time I went, there was a short line queued up on the right side of the office, and two or three employees helping customers. Typically, once the customer finishes and walks away to the left, the next customer in line approaches the counter. You know, the same way it happens in banks and airline counters all over the world, basically. Sometimes you'll wait for them to say, "NEXT!" or make eye contact. sometimes you'll approach before the teller is ready and she'll say, "just give me a sec to wrap this up and I'll be right with you". Typically.

But not in Jacksonville. Nooooooooooooooo. At OUR branch of the post office, we have a Counter Nazi. And he must be feared (in his little twisted mind, anyway). We'll refer to him as A** for anonymity's sake, and because it serves as an approprite stand-in for both his name [WHICH IS ALAN, IF I SEE HIS LAST NAME I'LL POST THAT HERE TOO] and the word ASS, which is a very accurate descriptor of this little so-and-so.

So the bright and shiny day I first encountered A**, I had made the grave mistake of approaching his workstation at the counter before His Highness The Royal Queen of the Post Office summoned me. I had paused for a few seconds after the last customer left his station, giving him the requisite wrap-up time between transactions, which, at a post office, is what, 15 seconds? I mean, once it's stamped, it's stamped, right? What's left, dropping it in a box?

So I approached, smiling, awaiting his attention. I just stood quietly in front of his station for a few seconds, and could have waited longer if need be. But NO. That's not how His Highness works. He must summon you from the dirty unwashed masses. Until that moment, you are unworthy of attention, and shame on you for thinking you have the power to determine when you will be helped.

So the jackass sent me back to the line. I'll repeat that part in case you're not appropriately outraged yet. HE SENT ME BACK. Like an errant, overanxious child, or a hungry dog that can't wait for the food to be put on the floor, he literally avoided eye contact with me, inhaled deeply, raised one eyebrow in the univeral sign of queenliness, and all but put his hand on his hip. He also almost pointed to the line. (At which point, I would've snapped, jumped over the counter, broken off his finger and stuck it where the sun don't shine.) Lucky for him, he didn't point. He just wrapped up his performance by announcing to the room in general, "PLEASE WAIT IN THE LINE UNTIL YOU ARE CALLED". I'm SO not even joking, this actually happened.

If you know me, you know I was plum-colored at this point, from a mixture of outrage, embarassment and disbelief. Mainly disbelief. I actually stole a glance at the rest of the people in the line to see if this was their 'normal'. I saw a few people looking disbelieving too, but others who either didn't observe or react to the drama.

So the queen proceeded to futz around with nothing at all, doing things like rearranging stamps and tying his shoes and turning around at his workstation to appear busy and justified at having sent me back into the line. After a full minute of this, he composed himself, and announced, "NEXT". When I waited for another second or two just to make sure this was actually happening, he barked, "NEXT CUSTOMER IN LINE! NEXT TRANSACTION!"

Luckily, it was a simple transaction, not enough interaction was needed to prompt any conversation from me that might have started with "ARE YOU FOR REAL??!!". Just asking for the postage I needed. My total was something like $7.00, and when I handed him a $20, he bitchily asked me if I had small change. I actually did, but my little insignificant passive-aggressive way of getting back at him for being such a giant ass was to stuff my singles deeper into my wallet and say, "no, sorry, just the $20.". Boy, that sure showed him.

That was the first interaction. I was pissed as I left the post office. I mean, seriously? You're not supposed to treat people that way.

The second interaction was just as ridiculous. I had gotten in line to ship two gift packages, and this time WAITED for His Highness to summon me. (Some other poor girl in front of me made the same mistake as I did the first time, and when she got sent back to the line she looked around disbelievingly to make sure she wasn't the only one who thought it was inappropriate behavior. I met her glance and rolled my eyes to show my support.) Of course he's the only agent available when it's my turn. Again he starts barking, "NEXT". Because it takes me 3.2 nanoseconds to pick up my packages, he starts snapping, "NEXT!! NEXT CUSTOMER WHO WANTS A TRANSACTION!" Gah. So I put my packages on the counter and ask to send them parcel post. Which, when you have large-ish packages that need to go somewhere in no particular hurry, is a good way to send them.

So he ran down this big list of things (that I had never been asked before), "is there any correspondence, currency, written material, etc etc etc in these packages?" Not realizing it was a trick question, I said, "yes." Duh. One of the packages had a card with a gift card in it. Because I'm honest that way, and didn't realize his only objective in asking these questions was to set me up so he could shut me down. He gleefully informed me, "well, then these don't qualify for parcel post." And despite my having told him that I wanted the cheapest shipping possible, he insisted on starting his list with, "You can have it there by noon tomorrow for $36.00, the day after next for $24.00....blah blah blah". WTF??!!! Seriously, who the freak CARES if there's a damn card in my friggin package? Apparently, he did, since it makes him feel POWERFUL.

So as he's trying to ring me up for way more postage than I need, I get really pissed and sick of his shit, and say, "well, this OTHER package doesn't have any correspondence in it. Does it qualify for parcel post?" To which he cattily ran through the list again, just in case I was as much of a moron as he thought I was, to which I answered "no" to every item. Looked him in the eyes, challengingly, as I did so. Just daring him to mess with me again.

I think he sensed that I'd had enough, but he once again ran down the list of how quickly and expensively I could get it there (because that's the last little bit of control he could exert over me), to which I put my hand on my hip, tapped my foot, and waited for the last, cheapest, parcel post listing.

I, who make a huge point over always thanking people for their time and help, made an even bigger point not to thank him or end the transaction with anything other than a huff and an eye roll. Again, I really showed 'em there.

I'm actually dabbling with the idea of complaining about his behavior. While technically, he may be following all the rules of the post office, it's the worst I've ever been treated at a branch, and they should really do something about it.

Guess I'll follow the old baseball rule here, and give 'em one more strike. At that point, I'm putting my foot down. There's no reason I should dread going to the post office, other than the rising price of postage.

Progress report

You may recall the gaping, jagged hole we had in our wall where the fireplace rock wall used to be. We have since evened it up by trimming away the remaining drywall, and the other half built a box frame that we'll be enclosing in drywall (as he did on the bottom part already) so we can apply our slate tiles.

Not much else has gone on recently, unfortunately, as we've both been working and traveling a lot. Although we did finish laying the hardwood floors in both guest rooms and office. This week we are planning on finishing the same in the master bedroom. Pictures to follow when we hit this benchmark..

After the master floor is done, we'll also be carrying the hardwood through the hallway and dining room. Guess it's back to Lowe's for us.

...and boy does she hold a grudge.

I had to leave town while the worst part was done - the complete removal of the three beautiful twisty trees from the driveway. (The "former neighbors" referred to in the video. You can see them in the closing shot. They're gone now.) I returned from my trip, horrified, and in tears. I knew I would. The house just looks so...so...nekkid. Exposed. This house liked to be hidden behind those trees. It really enjoyed it, this much I know. So now the house looks and feels uneasy without it's protective cloak of leaves. I know we had to do it, but it doesn't make accepting it any easier. And it doesn't mean I have to like it.

So back to the grudge. After the workmen got stung by the angry yellowjackets (that I swear did not exist on my property until the day the workers showed up), then cracked a large picture window, and one guy did get knocked off of a limb but was saved by his lifeline, things seemed to calm down for a bit while I went on the aforementioned 3-day trip to DC. Then I came home. The guys had also (generously, for free) cut down a bunch of scrubby brush and vines that were strangling the life out of deliberate plantings in the backyard, and left everything right where they cut it. So the yard looked pretty much like it did after tropical storm Fay blew through. Having tired of writing large checks to workmen, the other half and I decided to clear the yard ourselves and drag all the brush to the front yard where they could collect it next week. A few times during this process it occurred to me that I should find my workboots and change them for the croc-like nothings I was sporting. But noooooooooooooo. I didn't.

And so, inevitably, I stepped on a rusty nail.

Of course it penetrated the rubber non-shoe, and my hoof-like foot bottom (must've been some nail!). Actually, it was a roofing nail. Which makes sense, as the house was re-roofed when we bought it 4 or 5 months ago, and I had seen a roofing nail or two elsewhere on the property. Silly me for not wearing my steel-bottomed jungle boots. I also managed to penetrate my plantar fascia, so it hurts more than it probably normally would have, since it wasn't that deep of a hole.

I still think it's a vendetta.

It was partly my own stupidity, yes, but a revenge move nonetheless. I've been stumbling around this planet (typically in non-steel-bottomed boots) rather haphazardly for, oh, a few decades now, and usually nothing too bad happens to me, I'm fairly lucky. Not anymore, it seems. Guess I kind of deserve it, even if I only did it out of self-preservation.

We're planning on re-planting the area, and some others, with trees that will not tower over the houses threateningly, nor throw nuts at our heads, so that will fill in some of the bareness and hopefully prove our mea culpa to mother nature. In the side yard, we'll be planting lots of different types of citrus, whatever can tolerate the Jax pseudo-winter. I hope the bad luck will stop then.

And yes, I did go get a tetanus shot in the arm afterwards, which now hurts worse than the nail hole itself.

Hardy-har-har, mother nature. Very funny.


This is what it looked like in progress. I just realized I don't think I have any pictures of the front of the house all the way from the street before the tree-ectomies. But you can tell even while it was in progress, look how different. So much sun coming in to that driveway for the first time in 20 years. Sounds like a positive thing. We'll see.

I pissed off mother nature today

Pretty sure I did, anyway.

Remember those beautiful, twisty hickory and oak trees that loom(ed) over my house? What with all the hullaballoo of tropical storms and winds and whatnot up here, the other half was getting pretty nervous about an exceptionally large, gravity-defying 60,000 lb hickory that would obliterate the master wing of our house if it succumbed to gravity. Which, I'm pretty sure, it eventually would have.

So as much as it sickens me to do so, I had to hire a crew to come in and dead-wood the back yard (which was raining big branches every time the wind blew), and take down the most precarious tree on the lot. A few others got serious haircuts too. I was very apprehensive about doing this, being that I'm one of those people who believe that nature is a living thing, and there's some collective conscious involved even though we don't tend to see plants as sentient.

The first thing that happened was that the crew (about 6 guys armed with chainsaws) discovered a large nest of something living underground very close to the deck. And by something, I mean a hive of angry, buzzing, extremely aggressive stinging things. Wasps or something. Not exactly sure what they are yet, but the bug people are coming tomorrow to figure it out and hopefully take care of it.

And when I say the crew found this hive, I mean they were in the process of scaling the tree nearby and they stirred it up and the creatures came after everybody in the yard. I was inside the house without a clue that this was happening. Apparently one guy on the crew got stung about 3 times and knew he had an allergy, so the boss took him to the hospital, where, sure enough, his eyes swelled shut and his throat closed and it was a very lucky thing he was already in the hospital. A few others were stung 5 - 7 times. I went back there later in the day, and although I gave the hive a wide berth, they still figured me out and chased me out of the yard.

So, I ask myself, is this revenge?

Maybe.

We haven't even taken the big tree down yet. That's tomorrow. I shudder to think...I think I'll just stay inside all day.

damn your eyes, Sarah McLachlan

If any of you have been watching Animal Planet or HGTV lately, you've seen the commercial: the one where Sarah McLachlan is mournfully singing about the eyes of an angel, and they're showing videos and photos of abused animals. Tiny little innocent puppies and kittens in bad shape. It's so freaking depressing, I'm not even going to link to it because I don't want to inflict that sadness on my friends. If you're that desperate to be suicidal, you can google it yourself.

Of course I think it's great that she's using her star power and talents to help such an awesome cause, but does it have to be so freaking sad?

I mean, seriously. Every time I see this commercial (which is like every 20 minutes on HGTV), and now every time I hear this song, I want to go hug my kitties, give all my money to an animal shelter, and fling myself off of a cliff. In that order. The other half and I will go sprinting from another room for the remote to change the channel when this video comes on, just hearing it bothers us so much.

I hate this commercial. I mean, maybe it makes some people give money, which is great, but to sensitive people like me (by which I mean mostly 5-year old girls), this commercial seriously gives nightmares and emotional damage.

Does anybody think this is effective, if it's so repulsive you can't watch it long enough to get the number to donate?

Look, but don't touch

So I was schlepping through the Charlotte NC airport the other day (because schlepping is what I do in airports; no walking, traipsing, sauntering, strolling or moseying. Just schlepping.), and decided I wanted some gelato from the little stand in Concourse B (it's so sad that I know where it's located by memory). I had landed in Concourse C, and had about 25 minutes before having to board my second flight, also in C. So, telling myself that if I was going to eat a bunch of gelato, hauling myself cross-concourse was probably a good thing to at least pretend I'm getting enough exercise to rationalize it. It's about a 6 minute walk each way, depending on traffic.

And by 'traffic', I mean the slow-moving oxen-like people who have little or no awareness of the hundreds of busy travelers waiting impatiently behind them when they decide to park it right in the middle of the busiest walkway in the airport just to look at their ticket again because they don't know where they're going.

Anyway, cattle aside, I make it to the gelato place, and get in line behind an odd-looking little man. He was odd because he looks like he was transported directly out of the early '50s; dress pants pulled up to his armpits (almost), yellow collared short-sleeved shirt with an indistnguishable print, and the most ridiculously large plastic-framed glasses, coke bottles of course, bifocals to boot, with smudge marks all over the lenses. Oh, and he had a greasy comb-over and gorilla-hairy arms. Enough said.

So little man is looking at each of the gelato flavors through both parts of his bifocals, first above, then below, above, below, above, below, 18 times in total I think. At which point I think he realized he had either no concept of what gelato is, or no idea which flavor he wanted. Oh, and I think he was foreign. By the time he finished inspecting each flavor, two more people had stacked up in the line behind me. I was starting to get impatient, and roll my eyes and shift my weight from one hip to the other.

None of this is particularly noteworthy, but all of a sudden, one little action of his made every detail about this transaction conspire together to PISS ME OFF. The nice, overly patient lady working behind the counter asked him what kind of cone or cup he wanted. This kicked off a 3-minute explanation of small vs. large cups, waffle vs. cake cones. All of which is printed clearly on a LARGE sign above the counter. Apparently that wasn't obvious enough for him, and he wanted to know how much a cake cone cost. To the fault of the gelato stand, they keep the cones in a decorative basket on top of the counter. They should be behind the counter, in a semi-sterile environment. But they weren't. SO HE TOUCHED ONE. A cake cone. With his finger. To ask how much it cost. THEN HE TOUCHED ANOTHER ONE, a waffle cone, to ask the same. Nevermind that it was printed above, and she had explained it. HE HAD TO TOUCH THE DAMN THINGS to understand the answer, apparently.

Has he never heard of pointing? Do they not point in Estonia, or whereverthehell he's from? I mean, really, now. Touching public food? Who does that?

He probably double-dips at parties too. And for the unenlightened among us (and yes, I know there are some), double-dipping is when you dip your chip into the communal salsa/hummus/bean dip, take a bite, then dip the SAME chip back into the communal bowl, complete with whatever residual drool you left on that chip after biting it the first time. At least one of you reading this right now is going, "oh, snap, do I do that?" Yes, if you're asking yourself this, you probably do. Now you've been enlightened, and you can stop doing it now. Please.

When he started fingering the public food, I added small dissenting noises of disbelief and quasi-outrage to my ineffectual repertoire of weight-shifting and eye rolling. Not quite as effective as I had hoped. It's times like this I really need to lose my filter, and just say out loud, either to the offender, or at least to the lady behind the counter, "HEY, HE'S TOUCHING OTHER PEOPLE'S FOOD!" And how do we know he wasn't just massaging Brylcreem into his nasty comb-over in the bathroom? Or worse? But I didn't. Noooooo, sir. I chuffed and shifted and eye-rolled, but nobody slapped him in the wrist or chided him. Myself included.

I'm pretty sure he was seriously ESL, and a good chiding would've been lost on him anyway, but still. I really need to stop giving a shit what random, inappropriately-behaving people in airports will think of me.

I did eventually get my gelato (after watching this 15-minute debacle), but was pretty skeeved out at the fact that his greasy little finger had probably touched my cone. I probably should've said something to the girl, like, "No, please give me a cone he DIDN'T fondle", but nonesuch. How very milquetoast-y of me. So although I ordered the cookies 'n cream gelato, I probably in reality ate cookies 'n Brylcreem. Ew.

there's no place like home...

And I mean HOME home, like da 'burgh, where I actually hail from. The longer I live out of state, the happier an occasion it is for me when I return here. Not that I think I'll be moving back anytime soon (sorry, folks!), but I've come to appreciate this little city of mine.

It sounds cliche, but I have to say, I think the nicest people are from Pittsburgh. The apparent lack of elitism is so refreshing after 3 years in the festering hell they call Miami. Jax is actually pretty cool too, from what I've seen so far, but I really do feel like Pittsburgh will always be home base for me.

I flew in late and got to the hotel around 11. I passed a Primanti Bros. restaurant almost across the street from my hotel. I wasn't really hungry and the restaurant downstairs had just closed, so I thought maybe the trademark Doubletree warm chocolate chip cookie (a.k.a. "calorie bomb") that they give you upon check-in would satiate me. It kind of did, until I started looking for driving directions for tomorrow's work festivities which includes lunch at none other than Primanti's downtown. Once I started seeing the stores, and thinking about it, I actually debated getting dressed again to bounce over for a big fat sammich. Of course, they closed just minutes before I realized how badly I wanted my usual corned beef with cheese loaded with hot sauce. Mmmmmmm... Primanti Bros...

So now I have to go to sleep to forget just how hungry I've made myself. I think drool on the keyboard would violate my laptop's maintenance contract.

G'nite.