I live about a quarter mile from a post office, so it’s not unusual for a mail truck to appear to be following me or vice versa, especially near the end of the day. The driver is just done delivering mail and heading back to the post office while I’m heading home.

But one evening, a mail truck behind me kept flashing its high beams over and over. It happened for several minutes. I figured there was a good chance the truck was having some sort of malfunction, but there was also a possibility there was something wrong with my car that the driver was trying to signal.

The post office’s mail truck parking lot backs up to a library parking lot, so I pulled in there while the mail truck parked in its spot. I hopped out of my car and got the driver’s attention.

Me: “Hi! I’m not sure if you know, but your truck’s headlights—”

Driver: *Already apologetic* “Yes, they started acting up earlier today. I have to turn them off entirely to make it stop, but it’s so dark out that I can’t leave them off. I’m sorry about that!”

Me: “Oh, okay! I thought it was probably something like that, but I wasn’t sure if you knew. And part of me wondered if there was something wrong with my car that you were trying to let me know about.”

Driver: “Well, there’s no serial killer hiding in the back who ducks down when I turn on the high beams, so don’t worry about that!”

And honestly, yes, the urban legend had occurred to me!

Customer: “Do I have to pay extra to send something to New Mexico?”

Me: “That’s a standard fee since it’s within the US.”

Customer: “Well do I at least need an international air bill?”

I get this a lot, so I am quick to say:

Me: “No, sir, New Mexico is a state within the USA. It’s different from Mexico, the country.”

Customer: “They made Mexico a state? This is what happens when you vote Democrat!”

Years ago, I was at the post office the day after Christmas to mail a package. When at the counter being helped, I was suddenly hit by an evil impulse. (Yes, I often give in to my evil impulses.)

Me: “Will this arrive by Christmas?”

The clerk looked at me like I was an idiot.

Clerk: “NO!”

Me: “My God! That’s 364 days!”

The clerk managed to smile.

It was time to do my annual Christmas shipping run. I make chocolate chip cookies that people apparently go nuts for (no nuts in the cookies, though), so every year, I make mass quantities of them and ship a dozen each out to certain lucky friends and family members, along with an appropriate holiday greeting card.

By the time I was done this year, I had well over two dozen smaller boxes to ship, plus one larger box going to my daughter. This year, it was an odd, flat shape because she wanted me to ship her some big pictures that hung on her bedroom wall, along with her yearly allotment of cookies for her and her friends.

First stop: the local post office. I had the smaller boxes in these huge, reusable shopping bags, so I could take those with no problem, but how was I gonna get this huge box up the hill and inside?

The next thing I knew, my first Angel parked behind me and asked if he could help. Along with his own package, he took my daughter’s box up the hill, into the post office, and right up to the counter.

I couldn’t thank him enough. I was seriously considering paying for his postage, but his transaction was completed while I was taking care of mine, so I really hope “what goes around comes around” for him.

I handed over all the smaller boxes first; I had printed the postage at home already. Then, I hoisted the largest box on the counter, much to the postal worker’s chagrin. After measuring and weighing it, she pushed it back, telling me they couldn’t ship it because of its size.

That was inconvenient but not the end of the world. My next stop was my local [Shipping Service] location, which was inside an [Office Supply Store]. The box wasn’t heavy (thankfully), just awkward, and I had boxes to hand over to [Shipping Service] anyway, so off I went.

After handing over the smaller boxes, I hoisted the larger box onto yet another counter for the employee to measure and weigh. Much to my chagrin, the shipping cost for this was more than I expected. But it was Christmas, it was for my daughter, and it was my fault for waiting until a week before the holiday to ship, so I begrudgingly agreed.

The employee worked for [Office Supply Store], not [Shipping Service], so before I knew what was happening, he opened a binder and scanned a coupon for 25% off my shipping cost. It was still a tidy sum but not as much as before, and I thanked him profusely, as well.

I just wanted to share that not all employees are miserable this time of year, there are still good people in the world, and this is still a season of miracles. And I hope everyone likes their cookies.

My mum and I are at the post office to send out all of her Christmas cards. It’s the last day to send them to ensure they will arrive by Christmas. The customer ahead of us is having a hard time understanding.

Customer: “No! I don’t want this sent first class! Stop trying to rip me off! Second class only!”

Clerk: “But you said you wanted this to arrive before Christmas? It’s too late to send it second class if you want that. It has to be first class to arrive by then.”

Customer: “How lazy are you all? It’s just a small parcel that weighs a few hundred grams? You’re going to ruin someone’s Christmas!”

Clerk: “Last-postage-dates for Christmas have been published for over a month now; you could have posted this yesterday Second class and it would be fine. It’s your own fault you’re going to be late.”

Customer: “It’s because you’re a stupid Indian immigrant girl, isn’t it? Just because you don’t celebrate Christmas doesn’t mean you get to ruin it for everyone else.”

My mum jumps in at this point:

My Mum: “Does your ar*e ever get jealous of the s*** that comes out of your mouth?”

The suddenness and loudness of her savage sentence has left everyone a little shocked. Taking advantage of this silence she continues.

My Mum: “From what I can gather you are the one ruining your own Christmas because you came in too late, and you don’t want to spend an extra 73p! Cough up the extra pennies or drive it there yourself you dried up tea bag!”

The customer just stares at my mum for a moment, calls her an “old b****” – oooh, good one! –  and storms out. She walks up to the clerk, being next in line.

Clerk: “Thank you for that. He was beginning to scare me.”

My Mum: “Oh don’t worry about it. I used to work in a post office when I was a wee bairn and you’d get to recognise that sort before they opened their mouths. They look like they couldnae pour the water out a wellie (boot) if the instructions were on the heel and they still disappoint. Anyway, all these letters, first class, dear.”

Related:
Never Pick A Fight With An Old Scottish Woman, Part 5
Never Pick A Fight With An Old Scottish Woman, Part 4
Never Pick A Fight With An Old Scottish Woman, Part 3
Never Pick A Fight With An Old Scottish Woman, Part 2
Never Pick A Fight With An Old Scottish Woman