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Melrose is surprisingly small: there are only a few employees at the post office. One is a nice lady who made my change of address easy. However, there is one gentleman with a moustache and a civil servant's attitude.
I had to get a couple deposits into the mail and![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
chaggalagirl would need her car dug out to get to work in a few hours. So I bundled up, cleaned off her car, and backed said car into the street. I drove slowly to the post office to get stamps and maybe mail the letters.
chaggalagirl had a problem recently that a deposit she'd mailed from a box in our neighborhood didn't clear the bank for a week and a half. I had planned to take our deposits to Woburn's post office, since it's the processing center for the entire north shore and thus it shaves a day or two off a normal mailing. (I'm aware Woburn is not on the shore. Hush.) With the snow, I figured I'd mail the letters from Melrose and retreat home.
I found parking and walked up to the post office door at 1:58 pm. I see the moustached man walking to the door and preparing to lock it.
"We're closed."
I just need some stamps, though. I'll be fast.
"Too bad. We're closed." He has the key in the lock but the door is still open.
All I need are stamps.
He closes the door.
PLEASE! I scream, loud enough for the nice lady behind the counter to hear.
He turns away.
It's not even two! Priiiiiick!
I turn away. I see the supermarket across the street and it dawns on me that supermarkets carry stamps.
I raised my hand and declared, "I shall never do business at this post office again. I don't believe myself as I say it, but I guess I needed to steel myself to the prospect of driving through the storm for what normally would be a ten-minute drive.
I picked up a pack of stamps at the supermarket, drove to Woburn, and got our deposits in the box well before their 4:30 pm deadline.
Hiding behind rules is something "sinful" employees do, according to my employer's recent training seminar. The rules are there and need to be followed, but you shouldn't wave them in a customer's face. I usually play it off -- "hey, that's what the evil machinery says. You know, megacorps. Buuut... lemme see what I can do."
Yes, they're the post office. I can't expect them to think like a business. Still, all the guy needed to say was "schmuck, you need stamps? Don't worry. They got 'em at the supermarket behind you. You'll live. Now, you'll have to pardon me as I gotta lock this door before by boss bangs my head against it. Have a better one."
Oh shit. I just composed something based on customer service guidelines and told others about it. I am such a tool.epanastatis, please don't hate me.
By the way, the drive was a good idea. I relaxed, even in the heavily-unplowed world of Boston. I also heard a long piece on Fresh Air from a biographer of Jung. It got me thinking about the symbols again.
-civic-minded, Dante
I had to get a couple deposits into the mail and
chaggalagirl would need her car dug out to get to work in a few hours. So I bundled up, cleaned off her car, and backed said car into the street. I drove slowly to the post office to get stamps and maybe mail the letters.chaggalagirl had a problem recently that a deposit she'd mailed from a box in our neighborhood didn't clear the bank for a week and a half. I had planned to take our deposits to Woburn's post office, since it's the processing center for the entire north shore and thus it shaves a day or two off a normal mailing. (I'm aware Woburn is not on the shore. Hush.) With the snow, I figured I'd mail the letters from Melrose and retreat home.I found parking and walked up to the post office door at 1:58 pm. I see the moustached man walking to the door and preparing to lock it.
"We're closed."
I just need some stamps, though. I'll be fast.
"Too bad. We're closed." He has the key in the lock but the door is still open.
All I need are stamps.
He closes the door.
PLEASE! I scream, loud enough for the nice lady behind the counter to hear.
He turns away.
It's not even two! Priiiiiick!
I turn away. I see the supermarket across the street and it dawns on me that supermarkets carry stamps.
I raised my hand and declared, "I shall never do business at this post office again. I don't believe myself as I say it, but I guess I needed to steel myself to the prospect of driving through the storm for what normally would be a ten-minute drive.
I picked up a pack of stamps at the supermarket, drove to Woburn, and got our deposits in the box well before their 4:30 pm deadline.
Hiding behind rules is something "sinful" employees do, according to my employer's recent training seminar. The rules are there and need to be followed, but you shouldn't wave them in a customer's face. I usually play it off -- "hey, that's what the evil machinery says. You know, megacorps. Buuut... lemme see what I can do."
Yes, they're the post office. I can't expect them to think like a business. Still, all the guy needed to say was "schmuck, you need stamps? Don't worry. They got 'em at the supermarket behind you. You'll live. Now, you'll have to pardon me as I gotta lock this door before by boss bangs my head against it. Have a better one."
Oh shit. I just composed something based on customer service guidelines and told others about it. I am such a tool.
epanastatis, please don't hate me.By the way, the drive was a good idea. I relaxed, even in the heavily-unplowed world of Boston. I also heard a long piece on Fresh Air from a biographer of Jung. It got me thinking about the symbols again.
-civic-minded, Dante
