She’s asked for it

December 18, 2004 at 5:12 pm (Rant Goodness, WTF)

Yep, I'm referring to the woman who twists my working world around her little finger, The Mailbitch.

First, the name. It comes from repeated attempts to get her to do the job the fucking Government pays her to do–them and me, between the money I shell out getting my own ingredients shipped in and the money I shell back out for shipping things to others.

I think we must have called her supervisor no less than 5 times in futile attempts to accomplish this. I even marched my ass down to the Postal Orifice, massacred letter in hand fresh from my mailbox, to talk to him directly.

Ask Jav, folks–pissing me off is generally a bad idea. When I feel I'm right, 100%, unequivocally correct in the reasoning that has led me to my pissed-off state, I am not fun to deal with. Jav knows this–now so does my Mailbitch's supervisor. It did no good, but he knows it. Apparently all a Mail Delivery Supervisor is paid to do is make excuses for fuckup asshats who have little rotating lights and signs that say "Mail Carrier" on their SUV's, because that's what this dipshit does every time I talk to him. Poor guy looks like Eric Forman from That 70's Show, but I don't feel so sorry for him that I'm letting his overpaid ass off the hook either.

Over the last four years, this woman (I use the term loosely) has: thrown mail on the lawn–including my fiance's Gods-damned PAYCHECK no less, tossed our mail as far back as humanly possible in our huge mailbox (it's not a sport, lady), left mail that belonged either at the front door or in the mailbox at the garage door (Baby the Impala SS loves to eat packages and the dealership that takes my left tit for repairs loves them even MORE!), left same on the ground beside the damned door (next to the 10 foot porch that even I can hit if I throw at it), and about once a month leaves one of those yellow slips that say "You weren't home so your shit's at the Postal Orifice" when I know damn good and well I was home because I saw the ass-end of her SUV leaving the driveway as I answered the door when she rang the bell!

Normally I feel that we've come to a compromise: I leave her extra bars of soap and other goodies I make from scratch (employing something she doesn't have most days–a brain and a work ethic); she puts the mail where it belongs. However, the deal seems to be that she gets to deliver it whenever she pleases. You already know how much good it does to complain about it, so she gets away with it. Today, of course, is different–I have bottles coming in that I have urgent need for and she's late.

Tuesday we added a new part to the deal–I make her come to the door to pick up anything I paid postage on thru any online mail service (God, I want a postage meter! Please!!) and she lets me get away with making a neat pile at the door instead of going the half-block out to the mailbox with every single piece of mail I manage to have ready before she feels like showing up for the day's delivery and pickup.

Turns out that whenever we ask for a Click-N-Ship pickup, she gets extra pay! Very nice deal for her, but she's complaining! Why? Turns out she doesn't get that extra money if I haven't spent 20 minutes tooling around USPS.com trying to make that snarled excuse for a website give me the page where I can make her do my bidding (mostly). If I make it easy on her (like I used to) and just pop the puppies in the mailbox when they're set to go, she doesn't get more money on her pay.

This one time, the system works for me–I will gladly sit on my fat ass and order her to my door so I don't have to haul the mail out OR trot out there when she finally arrives to get OUR mail. She leaves it at the doorstep, saving herself screwing around with the mailbox at the road.

Suits me–I don't need a gripper on a telephone pole just to get my StinkieMail now.

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