(It’s about a week and a half before Christmas and I go to the post office to mail a package that I really should have mailed earlier. When I get there, the line is out the door. Since I won’t have another opportunity to get there before Christmas — and it’s bound to be that busy all the way up until the holiday, anyway — I go ahead and get in line. There are two young ladies in front of me in line that are complaining about the wait time. They look at me to elicit my opinion on the wait time; I just shrug and tell them that it’s my own fault for not coming sooner. By the exit door is a little stand with a smiley face, a neutral face, and an angry face on it, as well as buttons you can press to rate your experience at the post office. Almost everyone in line reaches over and slams down the angry face as they pass it, even though they haven’t actually been helped yet. When I get to the front of the line, only about twenty minutes have passed as they have five employees working very rapidly behind the counter. I get called up to the station where one of the more brusque and loud employees is working.)

Employee: “Hi there. How are you doing? What are we doing for you today?”

Me: “I’m doing fine. You?” *sets my box on the counter* “Just this.”

Employee: *starts the process of weighing and processing* “Oh, I’m fantastic. You picked a good day. But every day here is a good day. Not if you ask most people, though.”

Me: “It’s almost Christmas. It always boggles my mind that people would complain. They should know better. Plus, this line didn’t take that long, really.”

Employee: *reaches into his drawer and pulls out a candy dish with, I kid you not, homemade cookies on it* “Do you like cookies? Have a cookie!”

Me: “Oh! Thank you!” *picks a small cookie and he runs me through the mailing options*

Employee: “Do you like chocolate?”

Me: “Yeah, I do.”

Employee: *pulls out ANOTHER candy dish filled with fun-sized chocolate bars* “Help yourself!”

(I take one but he insists I take at least three of them.)

Employee: “All right, that’ll be [price]. Would you like to pay with cash, card, or firstborn child?”

Me: *chuckling* “Card. I think I’ll keep my son a bit longer.”

Employee: *as payment is processing, pulls out a foil-wrapped package from his drawer and hands it to me* “You can take these ones home and share them with your boy.”

Me: “You sure?”

(The foil contains MORE cookies.)

Employee: “Yup, I don’t need any more.” *pats his belly* “You have a great day!”

Me: “You, too!”

(On my way out the door, I slammed down the green smiley face button, cookie in mouth. By far that was the weirdest and best post office experience I’ve ever had.)

(When I am a kid in the 70s, my mum sets me up with a Post Office Savings Account with her as a trustee. Just after I turn sixteen, my mum and I go in to switch it into my name only. My mum is asked to sign something, and then it is my turn. My full name is quite long; let’s say it’s Elizabeth Suzanne MacKenzie.)

Cashier: “I need you to sign this signature card to put in your Savings Book.”

Me: “Okay.” *signs card*

Cashier: “No, I need you to sign your name.”

Me: “I did.”

Cashier: *sighs* “You signed ‘E MacKenzie.’ The name on the account is ‘Elizabeth Suzanne MacKenzie.’ That’s what you need to sign.”

Me: “But…” *pointing* “…that there is my signature. Do you want me to just write my name?”

Cashier: “You need to do your signature, but with your full name.”

Me: “But… my signature, that I use all the time, is that: it’s just my initial and surname. My signature doesn’t have my full name in it.”

Cashier: “Well, we need you to sign your full name.”

Me: “I can write my full name, or I can do a signature, but they’re completely different things. What one do you want?”

Cashier: “You need to sign your full name.”

Me: *totally fed up at this point* “Okay, fine.”

(And that’s why, until I got married ten years later and changed my name, I held an account where my signature was just my name, entirely printed in bold capitals. Yes, apparently that was perfectly acceptable as a “signature.”)

(As I’m 17 now, my dad and I have to go in to get me a new passport. While we’re waiting for our turn, a couple comes in with their son and daughter who look to be about ten and six years old respectively. Naturally, after waiting a bit, the little girl becomes really antsy so her mom gives her her — meaning the mother’s — passport form to keep the girl busy.)

Girl: “Mama, your paper’s wrong! It says you have brown hair.”

Mom: *laughing* “Well, what is supposed to say?”

Girl: “Gray!”

Mom: “…”

(I struggled so hard to hide my laughter, that poor lady.)

(I’m delivering the mail. Saturdays are busy days, as there is no delivery on Sundays and Mondays and many people want their mail to arrive before that. On top of that, we also deliver ad flyers that have to be delivered to every house that has no “no ads” sticker. We are short-staffed, so I have two delivery routes today, which I can usually just manage within the time period in which mail has to arrive. I’m at the end of the second route when I arrive at the house of a woman who always complains about me being late. This time, I’m actually pretty early for the Saturday delivery. I hear running behind the door as I push the mail through the mail slot.)

Woman: *ripping open the door with a menacing laugh* “Late again! You are always late on Saturdays! You are lazy!”

Me: “I’m sorry, madam. We have to deliver a lot on Saturday, and this is my second route. In any case, I’m supposed to get the mail to you before 5:00, and it is 3:30.”

Woman: “That’s not my problem! Be earlier!”

Me: “You’ll have to take it up with my manager; tell him he should hire more people to spread the workload.”

Woman: “That’s ridiculous. You should be here earlier!”

(I’m too tired for this s***.)

Me: “Have you considered moving to a house that is closer to the start of the delivery route?”

(She slammed the door shut. I moved on, and then called my supervisor to tell him we might be getting a complaint and to explain the situation. Luckily, she never did make a complaint, and my supervisor thought it was funny.)

(I work at a post office. Just before closing, two women approach the window.)

Customer: “I have my mail on hold, and we’re going away tomorrow. Can I pick up tomorrow’s mail?”

Me: *trying not to laugh in her face* “Ma’am, we won’t have tomorrow’s mail until tomorrow.”

Customer: “Well, can I go to the distribution center–” *five minutes from the office where we’re located* “–to pick up tomorrow’s mail?”

Me: “They don’t even have tomorrow’s mail. Why don’t you stop by tomorrow after ten am for tomorrow’s mail?”

(The customers leave with a confused look on their faces, not making a fuss but definitely not understanding that the post office ascribes to a linear understanding of time and cannot, in fact, give them their mail before it arrives.)