The Post Office

The time and materials necessary to create a zine are seldom matched by revenue from sale of zines.– taken directly from wikipedia.

With all this winter-wonder landing on you like dead weight, maybe you have more time to think.
Maybe you’re wondering about taco bell serving breakfast and what Michelle Obama thinks.
Maybe you’re still hung up on Bob Costas’s eye. (good sport, he is).
Maybe you’re wondering about my zine and if it’s still happen’n.

Probably not, but I filled you in on the other two, so… here goes.

The zine. I’ve been a bit distracted by some contract writing and political thoughts and trying to keep my last-living plant still with us. But though it’s slow going, it’s going, and as promised, I’ll share a little tid-bit of what I’m working on.


it's pretty beat up, but no weird smells yet-- so I think he's still kickin'
he’s pretty beat up, but no weird smells yet– so I think he’s still kickin’

As a reminder, most fiction/autobio snippets/reviews in the zine will  be loosely tied together because of their affiliation(s) with Prior Lake (P.L.)
Snarky comments, bogus suggestions, and all forms of criticism welcomed.

The Post Office

There  few things in life that I like to blame for my problems. If I have a bad day or something goes awry, I allow myself to blame A. no one, B. myself or C. one of my scapegoats.

My list of Scapegoats:
PT Cruisers
Post Offices

With PT Cruisers the answer is obvious, but post offices, you may ask… why?

A few stories to illustrate
{1st story removed from post but will be in zine}

The Scapegoat

With walls the color of dried spit and the scent of fast-food slip resistant sneakers, you can expect to enter the post office and see a long line of other peasants, clutching packages, walking toward immanent disappointment at the spurn of a post-worker’s scepter.

“You’ll have to purchase packing tape,” or “Stamps just went up in cost.” They say unflinchingly and motion with two long creaky fingers for the next person to fill your place in line.

You grab the tape and head back toward the front. You gaze toward the postal worker with pleading eyes.
Justice? Your spot back?
Your eyes are met with a look of such glazed indifference from the postal worker you imagine a dementor may be sucking out your soul. Slouching, you once again retreat to the rear of the line.


It’s inevitable. I have to mail a package. I have to or we’ll be charged for a bunch of vitamins and other junk we didn’t order and need to return. And even though they’ll make us pay the shipping, frankly, I can’t let them have the satisfaction of forcing those pills (literally) down our throats.

I leave our condo. Leave the cool, and traverse in non-swimwear into the August heat to a place that I’ve successfully avoided for months.

Upon arriving, I pause outside the door and take a last gulp of real air. Post offices always smell like regurgitated breath. I enter. I am greeted with as suspected, yes, but also with the friendly (!)  tobacco-stainless-smile of a female postal worker. Suspicious, I kind of smile back and edge forward to enter the line.

Cardboard, hot glue and new paper smells come into focus as I creep toward the abnormally high counter. A few minutes pass. It’s my turn; I’m summoned forward and offer up my package, a flawed oblation. I”m told, of course, that I need packing tape and it’s no surprise; the box is badly beaten, having once already made it’s rounds from sender to recipient.

I take my time finding the tape, assuming the back of the line is my fate anyways and lackadaisically scan the bright assortment of birthday boxes and cheesy cards.  I find the tape, evaluate the price, and remember I have to buy it no matter what.

I look up. The postal worker is beckoning. Inviting me to the front?  I creep cautiously  forward… so far no death stares from those in line … and reclaim my place. I hand her the package and tape. Nimbly, she reinforces it, fixing up the rips, then weighs it,  pronounces the price (which was notably less than expected) scans my plastic.
“Keep your packing tape in the car,” she says, “Most people forget it and ended buying it new each time.”

She is handing me a receipt now, smiling, wishing me a good day.
It’s  over? That easy??
I am nearly floating toward the door—feeling light, fulfilled. Such simple acts of service and I find myself smiling. I exit through the glass vestibule and  into thick summer sun, into peace and with one less place on my scapegoat list.
(Since writing this, the DMV has replaced the post office for reasons that I have no space or time to go into.)

What about you–have any scapegoats??

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