Because it’s raining cats and dogs, so my dog wouldn’t poop on her normal walk this morning, so when I needed to buy one-cent stamps, which I planned to do via the automatic stamp machines outside my local post office—because Media Mail is frigging $2.53 which no combination of even numbered 46-cent and 20-cent stamps will make—I took her with me, hoping for an on-the-way evacuation which I would conscientiously pick up with the plastic bag in my pocket, always there, because I am so law-abiding and conscientious.
Because the automatic stamp machines outside my local post office don’t sell stamps less than 17 cents, so this required leaving the automatic stamp machine room, dog in arms, waiting in line—there were only six other people, because, like I said, it was raining cats and dogs and nobody in New York City is in the mood to stand in line at the P.O.
Because even though I had my 12-pound dog in my arms when I very politely requested three one-cent stamps, which could have been given to me in less time than it takes to say “one-cent stamp,” instead, the P.O. clerk inquired about whether my dog was a service dog, taking more time than it would have taken to give me three one-cent stamps.
Because it’s raining cats and dogs and I’m incredibly honest and could not answer yes, which would probably not have helped anyway because of reason #5.
Because although my 12-pound dog in my arms is not a service dog, she was at one time certified as a therapy dog so I could altruistically donate our time to help reading-challenged children in NYC public schools—which takes a whole lot longer than saying “one-cent stamp”—so I honestly said, “But she is (not quite true, we’re expired) a therapy dog,” to which the incredibly efficient P.O. clerk responded, “Do you have your certificate?”
Because even though I actually have a certificate, albeit expired, it had not occurred to me to take it on a cats-and-dogs rainy day to the post office, which I ever so politely explained. However, the clerk then explained to me that she could not help me by taking my money for three one-cent stamps, because “those are the rules; I don’t make them up.” All of which took way more time than it would have taken to give me the stamps, paste them on my envelope, and toss the frigging thing in a bin! Ergo, I left the P.0., I have no one-cent stamps, it’s still raining cats and dogs, and my dog still retains her poop—which, once it comes, I must admit I am tempted to deposit in a place that is not a trash can!
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