Ken

I had to go to the post office today to mail some items. Guess who helped me. Yup, the PO Nazi aka Ken. I think he remembered me, but I can't say for sure. I certainly would remember me if I was working on the other side of the counter. I thought for sure we'd have a smooth transaction because I no longer bring certain packages to the SF post office because of my incident from a few weeks back (and yes, our local PO does take the "questionable" items without questioning a thing -- I showed you, Ken!).

But no, since I got Ken, something had to be messed up. He went PO Nazi nutty about a zipcode I wrote down. I'm not even sure if I messed it up or not, but instead of refusing to mail it because it may be incorrect, he went and got the Bible o' Zipcodes to look up the city, state to see if the zipcode I wrote down was in there. I almost said I didn't need to send it today, that I could take it back and check to make sure I wrote down the correct zipcode, but this was Ken I was dealing with and, well, I became indignant about the whole thing.

So I told him that was the zipcode given to me, so I didn't know anything about it. Instead of repeating the same scene from before, Ken humored me and said that maybe the computer wasn't updated yet. I just shrugged.

What's lame about this whole thing is that my stupid pride got in the way, and I think I did write down the wrong zipcode. So who knows when the package will arrive. And yes, this was a monetary transaction, so basically I should have taken the package back and figured it out.

But that Ken sparks something in me that makes me want to prove that everything I'm doing is correct and he's the wrong one.

Stupid Ken. Actually, stupid me.