(I am hurriedly trying to get a passport application in for my baby as I urgently need to visit my mother overseas. I have gotten his photo taken — which is a silly process in itself — gotten the certified documentation, and had a guarantor sign the photo and paperwork — a guarantor must be an adult that has known you for 12 months, not be related to you, have an Australian passport themselves, and not live at your address; usually people use a family friend or colleague. After waiting in a long line — despite having made an “appointment time” — with a cranky baby and toddler, I finally get to the teller. The teller starts looking at everything and gets to the photo.)

Teller: “This doesn’t make the requirements needed for the passport. You’re going to have to get another one taken.”

(She goes to hand everything back to me and starts to beckon to the next person in line.)

Me: “What?” *almost in instant tears* “What’s wrong with it?”

Teller: “The boundaries are wrong. Where did you have it taken?”

Me: “Um, here.”

Teller: “Oh, well. Sorry.” *doesn’t look remotely sorry* “Well, you can get another one done. And just get your guarantor to sign it, now, and I can still send it in today.”

Me: “Uh, funnily enough, she’s not here in the shopping centre right now; she’s at work. I’m on maternity leave. Pretty much everyone I can use as a guarantor is at work right now.”

Teller: “Well, you’ll have to just come back another day, then, once you’ve got it signed.”

Me: “I wouldn’t if you guys had just done the photo correctly in the first place. Fine. Let’s just do another photo and I’ll have to come back another day.”

(We did another photo which she tried to charge me for. Um, no. I got a new form and got everything filled out and signed by a guarantor and sorted out a few days later. I literally cannot see any difference in the boundaries of the first and second photo. Grr…)

(I’m at the post office to deliver a package. As I’m waiting for the worker to finish inputting information on his computer, another worker comes up to the counter, towing a cart with a single box on it; he then calls to a woman standing against the wall with a slip in hand to pick up a package. When she walks up to receive help, an older man walks out of the line and approaches her.)

Man: *tapping her shoulder* “Excuse me, ma’am, but I was standing in line there and you just cut in front of me.”

Woman: *after looking startled for a moment* “Oh, he just called me up for a pick-up. I wasn’t in the line.”

Man: “Yes, but I was in the front of the line there and you just cut ahead of me.”

Woman: “I was already waiting against that wall over there to pick up a package. I didn’t—“

Man: “I know, but I was in the front of the line and you just cut ahead of me. I should have been next.”

(At this point, the worker who’s assisting her cuts in.)

Worker: “Sir, she was just waiting for a pick-up. She didn’t cut the line; I called her over here.”

Man: “Yes, I know, but I was in front and she just cut ahead of me. She shouldn’t have gone ahead of me; I was supposed to be next.”

Worker: “She wasn’t in the line, sir. She was waiting for me to retrieve her package. I couldn’t assist you over here. I’m just giving her a package.”

Man: “I know, but she just shouldn’t have done that. I was in the front of the line.”

Worker: “I’m sorry, sir, but she’s just picking up a package. I wouldn’t have been able to help you.”

Man: “Yes, I know, that’s fine. But she shouldn’t have done that.”

(The man returns to the line, and the woman scurries away with her package, looking flustered. The worker shakes his head and throws his hands up.)

Worker: *pushing his empty cart away* “I’m sorry, sir, but I couldn’t have helped you even if I wanted to!”

(I take a call from a post office box customer who’s complaining that she hasn’t received her weekly paper for months. I check her box. It’s not only stuffed, it’s so full that we’ve pulled all the contents out twice and rubber-banded them to hold for pick-up, leaving dated pick-up cards in her box, and it’s STILL stuffed. According to those cards, she hasn’t opened her PO box in literally months.)

Me: “By my count, you have ten issues of the paper here at the office waiting for pick-up, eight on the shelf, and the latest two in your PO box.”

Customer: “But why are they there?”

Me: “Because you haven’t picked them up?”

(I get in the very long line at the post office and notice a woman ahead of me who has two very large cardboard boxes, still folded flat, and an enormous bag filled with sports equipment such as helmets and lacrosse sticks. Eventually, it’s her turn and she dumps everything onto the small counter.)

Woman: “I need to mail these. I have the addresses here.” *holds up two pieces of computer paper*

Worker: “Ma’am, we cannot package your items for you. You need to step aside and prepare the boxes for shipment.”

(The woman moves only about six inches over and starts wrestling with the boxes. The next customer squeezes past her. A few minutes later, the woman puts both boxes back on the counter on their sides, with the tops and bottoms still open.)

Woman: *interrupting current customer* “I’m done. How much is it to ship them?”

Worker: *in the same monotone voice as before* “Ma’am, I need you to close and secure those boxes. We cannot ship them like that.”

Woman: “Close them how?”

Worker: “Tape.”

Woman: “I don’t have any. Give me your tape.”

(The worker wordlessly hands over a roll of packaging tape. The woman tries to roll it over the boxes without peeling back the tape and ends up asking for help. Eventually, using the entire roll of tape, she gets the boxes closed. Two more customers have been served.)

Woman: “Done!”

Worker: *without looking up* “You need to address those boxes.”

Woman: “I have the addresses.” *holds up papers again*

Worker: “They need to be on the boxes.”

(The woman places the papers on the top of each box and pushes them closer to the worker. Someone behind me snorts back a laugh.)

Worker: *still totally unfazed* “We cannot mail them like that. If you want to use those papers, they must be connected to the box. Please step aside until you are ready.”

(Not being able to take it anymore and seeing the woman’s blank face and empty tape roll, I step out of line to help.)

Me: “Ma’am, would you like to use my tape?”

Woman: “Oh, thank you so much!”

Me: “You’re very welcome. What they need you to do is make sure the address won’t fall off, or else they won’t know where to send your packages. You should go ahead and cover all the edges of the paper. Or I have a marker if you’d rather write it out…”

(The woman happily hands me back my tape as I’m still speaking, with one tiny, solitary square attaching each sheet of paper to the side of its box.)

Me: “Um, are you sure you don’t want a bit more? You can use as much as you like. You really need to secure those.”

Woman: “No, that’s all right! But thank you.” *turns back to the worker and proudly puts boxes back on the counter* “I’m ready now! My sons need these.”

Worker: *slowly looking at each box and then up and down the woman with no other change of expression* “Based on their weight, your total is [total].”

(The woman pays and leaves.)

Worker: *still monotone, still expressionless* “Lord Jesus, some f****** people. Next in line, please.”

(Both my mom and my oldest brother are disabled — her from back surgery, him from a motorcycle accident that required a plate in his leg, then later on an accident at a construction site where he fell off a ladder and went feet-first into a huge pile of drywall, leaving him needing reconstructive surgery on his ankles. We’re going to the post office to put some bills in the mail directly. I can’t stand my brother’s music, so I have my CD walkman with me and I’m listening to Barry Manilow. The parking lot is crowded but there’s one handicapped space left, so we throw up the placard and I get out to put the mail in the inside box. A woman taps me on the shoulder, so I take one headphone off my ear.)

Woman: “Excuse me. Do you have a handicapped placard?”

Me: *pointing to it* “Yes, my brother and mom are both disabled, and you can see it’s hanging up.”

Woman: “Well, my mother is disabled and I just had to park on the other side of the parking lot.”

Me: “Well, we do have a placard.”

Woman: “I should’ve been able to park there since I have a placard for my mother!”

Me: *motioning to where the placard can be clearly seen* “So do we.”

(I put my headphones back on and head inside, annoyed that this woman kept me from doing what would’ve taken me less than ten seconds just to whine when we have a placard, too. She’s gone when I get back to the car.)

Brother: “She was still shaking her head and talking to you when you walked away.”

Me: *sighs and goes back to listening to Barry Manilow*