Tuesday, February 27, 2007

My Idea of Hell

This is day 8 of my diet. Day 7, if you consider the fact that I didn't eat anything diet-like on Saturday, when I had cream sauce pasta for lunch and fried crab and fried shrimp with waffle fries for dinner. With a very large beer. It's called a Shooner or something like that. It's bigger than a pint. And it was tasty.

One needs to live, you know? And Saturdays were not made for dieting. I'm pretty sure that's a law somewhere.

My point is, that this is the longest period of time that I've been on a diet, which is really good. Pat on the back for me. Already, I'm convinced that my belly has started shrinking, although, when I walked past a mirror on the way to put my slimfast, cheese and low fat Ritz, strawberries and Soy Milk protein drink into the work fridge, I noticed that my butt still jiggles tremendously when I walk, like it's trying to separate itself from my body.

I've been a little cranky during this diet, I admit. Like that time on day 2 that I considered leaving my husband. But overall, I've done really well with it.

My secret, because I'm sure you're dying to hear it, is that I eat something every two to three hours. So for example, I had my bowl of Special K with skim milk with a cup of coffee with non-fat vanilla Coffee Mate right before 7 a.m. So now, I'm about to eat my banana. Then around 11, I will eat my 100 calorie pack of Doritos cool ranch. Then before 1, I will drink my Slimfast and eat my yogurt and cheese and crackers. Then around 3:30, I will drink my chai vanilla soy milk drink and eat my strawberries. And then I'll eat my dinner and life will be great, because I'll have another day of pat on the back good eating.

Now, on paper, this all looks good. But should I miss my window for eating, I turn into the Incredible Hulk. The Incredible Hulk does not like to be hungry, in case you wanted to know. When The Incredible Hulk does go hungry, small towns are wiped off the map from the sheer amount of rage that radiates from his body.

And yesterday, I made the mistake of running to the post office during my lunch hour, since I had auctioned off a bunch of scrapbooking supplies on eBay and I had to ship a couple to Canada, something you cannot do completely online.

I had paid for the two packages online, and printed all the customs paperwork, but apparently, I needed this magical see through envelope, which I had to stand in line for. The line was only about 5 people long when I got there. No problem, I thought.

But what I'd forgotten, is that the post office is the place that lives the mantra of my worst pet peeve. My biggest pet peeve, in case I haven't mentioned this before, is slow-moving people.

I can't stand them, they make me want to gouge my eyes out while screaming profanity. It's one thing if you're in your 70's and can't walk fast. I can find patience there. But when you're just your average person, and just the gesture of picking up an ink pad is a two-minute process, this is where my face melts off and the devil lady inside me rears her ugly head.

And so 25 minutes later, I was still standing in this line. I could feel the hairs on my legs growing. And my whole body was shaking from anger, rage, and hunger, since it was now past my window for eating my lunch, which I'd failed to bring with me, thinking this would be a 20 minute trip, including driving round trip.

When I finally got to the front of the line, I was barely human anymore, reduced to a ball of quivering rage that was threatening to swallow up any happy person within a 50-mile radius.

The employee looked at my two little packages for an eternity, and finally sighed. "You can't use that tape," he said, pointing to my small box, where I'd mistakenly used "Priority Mail" tape on the top instead of regular packing tape. Apparently this is a crime worthy of the death penalty at the post office. "Oh, ok," I responded. "I figured since it was going Priority Mail to Canada that it wouldn't matter." He sighed, annoyed at my ignorance of basic concepts like shipping laws. "It's not. You can't use that tape." I try to think of my happy place. "OK, I'll remove it. Just hand me some tape and I'll fix it."

He sneers at me. "We don't provide tape."

-Excuse me?

- We're the post office. We don't provide tape. You have to buy it.

- I have to buy it? It's five inches of tape! This is ridiculous!

- I don't appreciate you speaking to me this way.

Wa, what???? He doesn't appreciate be spoken to this way? I didn't say fuck. I didn't call him an ignoramus asshole who thinks he controls the universe by not giving hungry people a couple of inches of tape. Should I be calling you sire as I question your idiotic policies? Don't my tax dollars pay his salary and any tape that he provides me?

I begin to tell him that I have done all of this online so that I wouldn't have to wait here for 25 minutes, but then that I was told I had to anyway, and what the hell was the point of doing it online if you have to experience this nightmare anyway.

He smirks that stupid face of his and slowly lifts up a stamp that must weigh 80 pounds, instead of the three ounces that it looks to me to weigh, because of how slowly he lifts it. "You're standing in line, because of this stamp. You're package won't go anywhere without this stamp."

My eyes shoot radioactive rays at him and I hiss at him to just stamp my stuff and get it over with then, because I have a meeting in 10 minutes. He then slowly lifts my package and puts it on the scale. "I already told you, it's paid for," I protest.

"Oooooh!" he grins. "You wrote that this package is four pounds, but it's four pounds and two ounces. That's going to be an extra dollar and 35 cents."

- You put the freaking paper work on top of it! That's why it's over the weight limit!

Shaking, I throw the extra money at him and leave with my illegally taped package.

I'm going to run for president. I'm going to be the first Canadian who is president of the United States of America. As President, my first law will be that any taxpaying person in the USA can fire on the spot any bastard governmental employee who treats them like dirt. So post office worker, be warned, you're first on my list. Then it's on to you customs officers who treat me like scum, just because my passport says "Canada" on it.

I've said before that I don't know if I believe in heaven. But I sure believe in hell. Hell is the post office. And if my slutty past and my doubting the existence of heaven count against me, then I'm sure the place I'm going is one giant post office with a line that takes an eternity and I'm starving to death during the process.

Love,

Catwoman.

4 comments:

Beccy said...

Think positive thoughts: surely all that rage burnt a few calories!

I'll be the brunette next to you in that post office queue in hell.

Julie said...

What an ass that guy was. Gee, and we wonder why post offices and Motor Vehicle Dept. have such bad reputations. It's b/c of lovely people like Mr. Post Office Ass. You should be commended for not ripping his head off!

Alpha Dude 1.5 said...

Lucky for you no one went "postal".

Enjoying your blog. Thanks for visiting mine.

Kurt said...

Nice anecdote about PostHell. I completely sympathize with you about slow people, and employees who aren't interested in helping you, even though that's their freakin' job!

Found you through Kellie's site (My Little Corner of Life). That was a great comment you left for her.