Just remember, kids, lefter is always worser even if left sucks pretty bad enough by itself.

If you’d rather have your cry with a side of laugh, look at SeeDub’s awesome bumper stickers.

I hate the post office. It used to have a claim on my affections, back when I lived in a small town, I went in with my packages, stood in a line of reasonable size, and then, for a reasonable price, had the satisfaction and anticipation of my packages flitting off to their intended recipients.

The Beaverton, Oregon, central post office changed all that when I moved out here a few years ago. The line is always insane; there is always, except at Christmas, a maximum of three people at the counter that holds six employees, and at least one of those employees is always a blatant jackass of either the pedantic or completely clueless type. I let two or three people go ahead of me one time to avoid repeating with an employee I knew to be a pedantic petty power-monger who had to adjust my package to his specifications before he would deign to accept it for delivery. Combine that with the price hike they made last year, and my post office hatred was made official and enduring.

But there are times when a girl needs postcards, especially if it’s that time of year again for entering the only ridiculous-odds great-prize game of chance she plays all year: The HGTV Dream Home. I buy a certain number of postcards for that every year–like a sucker–put my info on them, and send them out in the vain hope of winning a couple mil by random drawing. I actually suspect the post office of delivering only one and dumping the rest, since, hey, they’re all the same, right? I could be playing the lottery every week instead, right? Although the money would probably come out the same, to be honest. Nevermind that. The point was: Need postcards. Have to (groan) go to post office.

I have a limited amount of time, as I decided to try to squeeze this errand in on the way to The Bean’s preschool. I wait in line for a reasonable time, three or four minutes, and then make my way to my designated employee of the three. All the while I stood in line, though, I could clearly see, in the back room where the actual mail operations take place, packages indulging themselves in what I’m sure is their favorite pastime: Flying through the air with the greatest of ease, without benefit of men on the flying trapeze. A guy whose arms I could see when he would heave a package was letting fly with one box after another, so that they described a lovely parabola in the air and then landed with a thunk that resonated throughout the whole post office in the bin where he’d aimed them.

I get up to the counter and state my mission to my designated employee–we’ll call her Two of Three.

“I need two hundred postcards, please.” Two–not graced with leadership enough to be One of Three, not smart enough to stay at the back of the line like Three of Three–ambles over to a cupboard at the back of her station where they evidently keep this merchandise. Or are supposed to. Her hand emerges with one bundle of postcards, and since this isn’t my first rodeo, I know the USPS’s postcards come in bundles of 50. She needs three more. She lollygags over the gal next to her, we’ll call her Three of Three–“Do you have any postcards?” A discussion ensues which does not appear to include checking the surrounding environs for any actual postcards. She sashays over to One of Three, who is busy helping customers far more efficiently, I’m positive, than either of her compadres. Then she checks the two empty employee stations beyond One’s cubicle and comes up with … no postcards.

She moseys back to the vicinity of her stall and starts to say something about looking somewhere else, at which point I cut her off because if I don’t leave within sixty seconds, The Bean will be late to preschool. “I don’t have time to wait; I have to go.” She changes her potential offer to look somewhere else into a flat “We don’t have two hundred.” In my mind, my current favorite phrase hurtles towards her and bops her invisibly in the head: Well, no shit.

Instead of saying this aloud, I shift subjects. I don’t usually bother giving people advice on what to do in their workplace. I’m pretty sure it’s futile, for starters, but this time I’m so peeved, and so stunned at the audacity of 1) their complete lack of customer service and 2) the brazen circus show that is taking place in the back room with the packages of said customers, that I give it a go. What the heck. “It’s just a suggestion, but you might want to tell your people not to throw the packages while we all can see them.”

She looks around, in slow-motion wonder, as though she cannot believe this would take place in her post office, and actually says, I kid you not, “Who’s throwing packages?” Because it’s not her, you see, thereby making it, apparently, impossible that this could be taking place.

“The guys in the back room. The packages are flying across the room,” I explain nicely with irritation at her stupidity creeping into my voice and my hand showing her the arc the flying packages are making, in case she needs a demo.

Suddenly she shifts from “Wha … people are throwing packages … ?” to … I still kid you not … “That’s how you sort packages.”

That’s what she said, just like I was the idiot not to know that, that I was the idiot to be concerned that something inside at least one of those packages might break, causing consternation and distress to an overcharged customer.

I guess I am the idiot. I mean, I know people throw your stuff around, packages, luggage, what have you, absolutely wantonly the minute they get it out of your sight, but I am accustomed to them waiting at least until I am out of sight. It reminded me of the day I looked out the airliner window and witnessed a ramp luggage guy pulling bags off the belt and heaving them ten feet, where they crashed into the concrete below. He was having fun. I guess I know they do this, but it’s a different matter for them to act like this is how it should be. I guess that’s the way it is and I’m just a sucker to think anybody does their job with consideration to the people who pay for their job, either directly or as part of a larger experience, i.e. airline travel.

I’m now, after a run-in with some UPS gals a couple of weeks ago, a new and fervent FedEx convert. They may throw my packages around, but by golly they know enough to keep the throwing shenanigans out of my sight.

I love to read Anne’s LifePundit blog, so I hope she won’t be upset that I’m picking on her a bit here. As Calvin and Hobbes once ruminated, “Verbing weirds language.” And although verbing words may be a clever shorthand and perfectly understandable, like many things that are at first new and cool, after a while it can seem affected and pretentious. Anne’s use is one of the oldest forms of verbing I’ve observed in my lifetime and has definitely passed over into the “pretentious” stage:

To stay on track, I will journal every day.

To stay on track, perhaps she should write in a journal every day or even keep a daily journal, but to journal every day sounds both mysterious and banal* at the same time, like it’s the current hot fad that she will do because everybody says it will be good for her (and, in fact, a hot trend in all the various levels of schooling plus psychological journeying was indeed, as far as I know, the origin of the verbing of the noun “journal,” at least in its current incarnation). Now Anne’s a writer and she’s not keeping a journal because it’s a fad, but because she understands that this is something that works for her personally, I suspect. So remove the trendy jargon usage from the word and it goes back to being more a serious, thoughtful act of reflection than something she’s doing because she read it in the Oprah magazine. (Yes, if you’re wondering, I crack myself up, even if nobody else laughs.)

There’s the $.02 Anwyn’s Note on verbing. Don’t do it, especially when it’s popular.

Maybe for Lent, I should give up pointing out people’s bad grammar habits.

*I frequently look up words I already understand just to double-check that I’m using them correctly before I throw them up here. I’m going to link definitions when I do that, in case you also want to make sure you know the word or just want to see what kinds of things I find myself having to look up. Fun, no?

Little Brother, plus a grinding team of blitzers, stuffing it into Brady’s smug, arrogant face. Way to go, Giants, that was totally incredible. The Patriots didn’t even come close to giving it away, either. It was taken from them by force. Hard fought and well done, Giants. A lot more lovin’ for Eli is in order.

And then there’s Bill Belichick, leaving the field with one second left while his team lines up for the last futile play. What an ass. Tony Dungy would never dream of perpetrating such an act of disgust towards his own team, Bill, no matter how close they came to an undefeated season before having it snatched from them. Which is why he’s the better man. How ya like them apples?

Occasionally I am seized by a fit of madness to pick up an Oprah magazine in the grocery store. There’s always some cool-sounding headline. Who wouldn’t want to learn How to Attract Your Heart’s Desire? I always, dumbly, think maybe there’s some good advice in there. The table of contents this time said they also had some of Kate Winslet’s favorite books and why she likes them. Sold!

It’s always disappointing, of course. There’s always crap inside, like screeds from that chick who wrote The Vagina Monologues and, in the current issue, novelist Wally Lamb, whose work I despise, encouraging people to tell their own stories. From prison, or something. Whatever. And how to attract your heart’s desire? Turns out you put it out to the universe. But this has to be the biggest laugh-getter of the issue. Right on the cover:

“Life Will Teach You If You Let It”
Oprah talks to one of the world’s wisest women

My response to that, and yours, is obvious.

Well, no shit.

I mean, seriously, you don’t say! I guess since I freakin’ knew that already, since you don’t get to be 33 and a mother and a basically successful human being without realizing you have to learn as you go along, that makes me one of the wisest women in the world. So I got that goin’ for me. Which is nice.

And the House and Bones and Moonlight and Men in Trees and 24 and Battlestar Galactica.

Hope looms.

…let’s not forget the most important lesson of Groundhog Day, which is not that rodents can predict the weather but that guys who can play are hot.

…to Slublog, for altering one of the existing FredHeads for Mitt buttons into a size and look that I wanted for my sidebar. I’m fairly clueless at Photoshop, so he helped me out. If you want to put it on your blog, go for it.

I typically would avoid labels like “FredHead.” (See also: Browncoat.) But I think it makes sense, since I had a first choice who I felt was the best choice, to continue to make that known.

Thanks, Slu!

Also, where are your arms?

You, on the other hand, look cute with your sleek, snappy dress and little apply cheeks, however unkind it may be to remind me how much I miss Veronica Mars in the middle of a strike.

Son, examining a diagram of the solar system: “We live on Earth.” Pause. “Do you like this planet?”

…why it’s not a good idea to vote McCain before November, try this.

Read this if you’re planning to stay home rather than vote for Nominee McCain, if it comes to that.