Chicks are here!

During the spring and summer, the end of the week is "Baby Chick Friday." The clerks put a note on my case at the post office so I don't run off and forget them. Sometimes it's a box of 25 chicks; sometimes it's 200. The clerk usually decorates the note for me:

Once in awhile the printout itself is the entertainment:

These are the notes I don't like to see:

Today? They all arrived alive and cheepful.

Did You Know...?

...that you can ship a swan through the mail, but not a canary?

...that the Co-op puts refried beans not with the whole beans but in the "International Foods" section?

...that I posted to my Canning Among Friends blog?

All true.

Fish...

...stinks from the head!

Ask your senator to support S-1789 if you'd like to keep the post office around.

Where Have I Been?

Christ on a cracker, has it really been since June since I've posted? Jeez. So here we go, with ungrateful thanks to my friend Wendy for kicking me in the can...I realized last year that Facebook was not only eating up a lot of my downtime but that it had also driven a stake into the heart of my blogging. So I killed my Facebook, and intended to start blogging again... but here we are, late January 2012, still with a seven-month blog drought. To clear the pipes I'm posting this one and the three draft posts sitting around. You may need some supplementary fiber for this much fun.

A quick recap of 2011:

The Post Office did not work me to death, but it took me half the year to recover from 2010, when the Post Office did. You know it's bad when you long for the return of the ten-hour days.

Still no sign of the flat-sorting machines they've been promising since, oh, when I started at the P.O. a little over four years ago. Which also means I am still a PTF. We occasionally hear their rumblings, though, so who knows. Maybe next year.

The Pendragon campaign I wanted to start in the spring finally got going in December when I acquiesced to reality and gave up on the Vortigern idea and just settled on Hampshire in 485 instead.

Our great plan to increase egg availability to the neighborhood by increasing our flock worked, kind of. Yes, we have more eggs. So more people stop by to buy them, so it's just as difficult to get them as before. And when we added more hens we quickly realized it's either the lawn or them, and that our current coop collection was inadequate to house that number of birds—I think we had 25 hens and pullets at one point! And, we got tired of having to be out in the yard at dawn and dusk every day to let them out and shut them in. So we made plans to build a new coop.

Now, the hubs and I are each capable of building a chicken coop, but if you know us...We finally hired a handyman neighbor to build it. During construction we moved the old coops out of the way, to the perimeter of the yard.

The funny thing about raccoons is, normally you hardly ever see them. But for sure they are watching you. I don't know how it is that function follows form in the case of the masked raccoon, but they are experts at casing your joint and robbing you when you goof. So one night, when one corner of the very heavy chicken coop door was unlatched, they very quietly pried up a corner, reached in a paw and grabbed the closest hen. Since the flock roosts by seniority, Marilyn Wyandotte had the plum spot furthest from the door...and right by the unlatched corner. We didn't hear a thing, so for her it was a quick death. But Frenchy Buff Orpington was second and evidently put up a fight, because we all woke up for that one. We got a call the next morning from our neighbor asking us to remove the carcass...Sigh.

The next night some of the poultry were understandably hesitant to enter the Coop of Death, and spent the night outside. Oh—part of the night. That woke us up, too. Ameraucana feathers everywhere.

So we evacuated the poultry to my step-daughter and son-in-law's coop in Northtown. One of the Jersey Giants made an escape attempt; maybe she got eaten, maybe she's living in someone else's yard now. But she's out of the flock.

The new coop is up and running, and while little paws have explored every inch of barrier, we have had no losses. And the sweet, sweet open-air design means no more dawn/dusk trips into Poo-land. Like I said, sweet!

Lots more happened around the Mighty Small Farm, but that's enough for now. Have some photos:

 

The day after the hubs left on his nearly-month-long sojourn to the Yukon, I fell off a horse. I was out of commission for about a week, and this paltry bruise is the most I have to show for it. Ripped off!

 Hubs at the Arctic Circle...They were gonna go for the Arctic Ocean, then realized the road depicted on the map is only passable in the winter, frozen. In summer it's a morass.

I tried to get him to go as a mail man, but our uniforms don't come with the stylin' mustache, so Mario won out.

Everybody loves the variety pack of colors that comes with an egg purchase from the Mighty Small Farm, but those Ameraucanas aren't the brightest bulbs in the hen house. But I'm totally sold on Rhode Island Reds.

 So I decided that moving large parcels and hampers of mail all day wasn't enough exercise, and joined Humboldt Roller Derby. This is my pal, Scrappy Scrappy Joy Joy, at her firsts scrimmage in Hayfork.

The Times-Standard continues to provide excellent amusement bang for the buck.

Souvenirs of Marilyn Wyandotte, an extremely bossy and handsome hen...Oh, and we got new furniture.

Dogs Are Strange People

A box at Arcata Pet caught my eye yesterday as I was making a pick-up:

It took my brain a moment to sort through anticoprophagic...

...then I read it again and my eyes lit on "condiment." An anti-poo-eating condiment...

Today I was irresistably drawn to the box for another read. I wasn't disappointed. "...imparts a forbidding taste to excrement." Doesn't poo, you know, already have a forbidding taste?

Basically, it's Antabuse for dogs.

Holiday Cards & Other Matters

As I was splashing through puddles on my mail lady rounds today, it occurred to me it might be time for a post on sending holiday mail.

Holiday cards   I just bought two boxes of cards tonight. Here's the thing: people don't send a lot of letters these days, and they're out of practice writing out your address. Holiday cards get misaddressed like crazy. We try really hard to get cards to the recipient, but if we can't, you'll never know unless you put a return address on the card. Please. I hate throwing them in the nixie bin.

Use last names somewhere on the envelope. It hurts to see a card with a bad address sent to "My New Grandson" or "Grandma & Grandpa"—but if there's a last name on the envelope sometimes we can get it to the right house. But a nickname or title and a bad address? Again, the nixie bin.

I don't know about where you live, but here it's raining. Don't use water-soluble ink. Ball-point or Sharpie is nice.

And yes it's fun to have the kids address the envelopes. But please, check them before you mail them.

Oh, and don't put your return-address label in the middle of the back of the envelope. Sometimes the sorting machines think that's the To address, not the From. Put it somewhere along the edges of the envelope, front or back, to avoid getting your own card sent to you.

Postage is 44 cents for a first-class letter that the big sorting machines can handle. That covers 98-percent of holiday cards, so don't worry if it's too heavy and should you put a second stamp on it. It should be fine. However, if the envelope is too small (less than 3.5-inches high and 5-inches long) or too big (more than 6 1/8-inches high and 11.5-inches long), it costs more to mail. If you put a small toy or something in the envelope that makes it puffy, it costs more to mail. If you send it in a stiff mailer so that it will not bend, it costs more to mail. Many mail ladies and mail men pay the difference rather than returning your card to the sender, and if they do, please pay them back.

It costs more for Canada, Mexico, and Europe—98 cents, I think. But double-check that.

Are you sending photos or something you would like to not get bent or folded? Please indicate that on the envelope, and for crissakes, put it in something that won't bend! Machines and burly guys in sweatshirts and work pants are sorting this stuff, and they are not looking for the one or two envelopes in the tub that say "Please do not bend—photos!!!"

If you are mailing something that is fragile, liquid, or perishable, please tell the clerk YES when they ask you. Please. And pack it well! (Remember the burly men.) Every year we get a handful of packages that leak all over everyone else's holiday parcels. And no one wants their present to smell like white gas stove fuel, olive brine, or rotten fruit*. (All things that have broken open and leaked in my mail tub.) Also, you will then have to come down to the Post Office yourself to retrieve your newly-classified HAZMAT package. Not fun.

One more thing about packages. Parcel Post is the slowest, then Media Mail, then First-class parcels. Priority takes 2-3 days, and if you use the free Priority boxes provided by the post office, they ship faster than if you use your own packaging. Yes! It's because the post office boxes, with their standard sizes, fit neatly into trucks and aircraft, while your recycled shoe and banker's boxes do not. So guess which get loaded first?

Oh, and remember! "If it fits, it ships." Just use a LOT of tape. Burly men.

Express Mail arrives the next day. But someone has to sign for it, unless you waive the signature requirement. Unless you really, really need a signature, please waive it. I'm crushed when I try to deliver an Express package or envelope on a Friday, no one's home to sign for it, and it goes back with me to the Post Office until Monday. Bummer.

So, to sum up:  
Use last names! 
Use return addresses! 
No undeclared liquids!

Thank you, and have a very merry holiday season.

thank you, cheezburger

*One year a lady in Florida decided to send a family member a box of fresh Florida fruit. Only she sent it Parcel Post. Then when it got here a week later, that family member wasn't home, so it sat in the Post Office for awhile til they could come down and get it. By this time we had isolated it in Hazmat and sealed it in a big plastic bag because of the stench. When the lady came down to retrieve it, the manager who was helping her tore open the plastic bag, and a huge cloud of fruit flies poured out. We all turned around when the other clerks started shouting, "Close the bag! Close the bag! Aaggh!"

The sister decided she didn't want the box of rotten fruit, so she paid to have it sent back to her sister in Florida.

I can only feel sorry for the clerks on the receiving end.

I'm famous

Delivering the goods during the USPS food drive, sporting my non-reg do-rag and socks!

Photo by Dana Utman (Arcata's own City-4 carrier!) and run in The Arcata Eye.

Who Knew?

An Early Start

It's Monday, my day off, and I'm getting ready for my 7:30am clock-in time at work: one pair of socks, two? Do I need a long-sleeved undershirt today, or is a tank okay? Knee socks?

I hear the rumbling of a diesel engine in the street outside, and take a peek out the front-door curtains. It's a FedEx truck, and our local driver coming up our walkway with a parcel. The sun is not yet in the sky. I ask him, What are you doing here this early? and he says, On Mondays we start at 5 am. I take the box, give him a hug and say Thanks. He says, Don't work too hard today and we both laugh.

So even though you all know that I am awfully partisan towards the USPS, please, these next two weeks, throw some love to your FedEx and UPS guys. They're working it for you.

On being a mailma'am

I have NO idea if people are curious or interested in the typical day of a mailma'am. If you're not, there's always this. Otherwise...

I am a part-time flexible carrier, or PTF. Your mailman is probably a regular carrier: somebody with their own route, which they carry (deliver) five days a week, 8 hours a day. They know your name, when to hold your mail while you're on vacation, how old your kids are and the names of your in-laws and pets. When your regular mailman has more than 8 hours of work in a day because of the volume of mail, or has a doctor's appointment, or is sick, that's when we PTFs step in. So you only see me every once in a while, and I'm usually looking lost, frustrated, and/or harried. Where is the mailbox? Where is this house? Where is this street? Who lives here? Etc.

Sometimes, though, when your regular mailman goes on vacation, or is out on short- or long-term disability (twisted ankle, repetitive-strain injury), you might see me every day, especially if I opt on the mailman's route while he's gone. When I opt on a route, I effectively become the regular until the regular mailman returns: I get his days off, his start/end times...kinda. More on that in a bit.

I like short-term opts because it allows me to really learn a route: who lives where, how long the various sections normally take to deliver, who wants me to leave packages and who would rather come down to the PO and pick them up, where the bathrooms are, who's got dogs, that sort of thing.

In general, the post office is expected to make money, to operate in the black. We aren't. Maybe in another post I'll go into that, but for now I'll just ask, the last time you were in Europe how much did it cost you to mail a postcard or letter? Compare it to the cost to mail a postcard or letter in the US. Also...is the Dept of Transportation expected to operate in the black? It's not an apples-to-apples comparison, I know. But put it in the back of your mind.

At our local post office, we have 21 routes, plus three swing carriers. (Your mailman has a five-day work week, but the post office delivers mail six days a week. The swing carrier delivers the mail on your mailman's day off, for five different routes.) We also have a relief carrier, a fill-in-the-blanks carrier for short-term and/or unexpected holes in the schedule. Earlier this year we had a mailman leave the post office, and our relief carrier took his route. (No one took the relief position.) Then someone else moved out of state, but no one took his swing. Then someone left on long-term disability, and a carrier switched routes, but no one took her old one. Then another mailman left on short-term disability. We also have a mailman who keeps deploying to Afganistan for months at a time, making his route a short-term opt. So by my count we have 3 routes open, and 2 short-term opts available.

Again, at our local post office, we have three PTFs and, like I said, I am one of them. The three of us have all opted into the three open routes, so there's no one available for the two short-term openings. There is no one available to cover medical appointments, or sick days, or days when a carrier goes on vacation. We have three temporary employees, who get no benefits or credit towards a postal carrier for time served should they become PTFs or regulars -- they're just like anyone hired by a temp agency. So most days we negotiate Japanese baseball game to distribute the mail from open routes so that it all goes out. Because, at the post office, it all goes out. And we stay out til it all gets delivered.

I sprayed a dog today

It's the first time I've used pepper spray: surprisingly pretty, orange-red and holiday appropriate. It stopped the dog, but I didn't get the full, satisfying reaction of yelping and carrying on about being sprayed. It just turned away. I've heard that pit bulls are spray-resistant.

Despite the jolt of adrenaline, the whole thing bummed me out. I've had dogs lunge at me, charge me from down the block, slam into doors trying to reach me...usually my satchel and a stern word is enough.

So I was jittery and feeling irritated at stereotypical dreaded hippies keeping poorly-trained pit bulls when a block and a half later some other stereotypical hippies offered me a handful of fresh-picked berries, and then it wasn't so bad.

Well-dressed (updated)

I've finally accumulated what I consider a basic assortment of postal uniform pieces, though my everyday outfit is very basic: short-sleeved work shirt, shorts, Frankenstein shoes and ankle socks. This being Humboldt County, I tweak it before I head out the door.

Friday, we (and most of the northern U.S.) had a cold front come through. It was pretty cold, even snowing a bit Saturday (it didn't stick).

But last night and today the cold air behind the front got here. More rain, more sleet and hail and snow. Again, it didn't stick on the ground in downtown or the bottoms, but it sure did on the ridges just outside of town:

...snow was reported on the coast but there was no accumulation from the snowfall. The lowest elevation at which snow accumulated on Saturday was half an inch in Orleans -- 400 feet above sea level. At 2,600 feet, near Dinsmore, 5 inches of snow was reported Saturday and 4 inches Sunday.

(I wish I had some photos for you, but G-man has the camera and nobody told our local newspapers that exciting weather shots generate lots of clicks.)

Ah! But the San Francisco Chronicle provides:

That's on Vollmer's Peak in the Berkeley Hills. Nice hat, kiddo!

Carmel Valley, south of San Francisco and near the most excellent Ventana Wilderness. All those big houses and those folks can't afford a few horse blankets?

When I left the house this morning, I had added to my basic ensemble wool knee socks, rain pants, a Capilene 4 undershirt, fleece vest, scarf, hat (2), and a parka! I looked like the Michelin Man's union-shop brother.

Dude, it was cold. I was glad when it inched up past 40 (5 C) today. I couldn't figure out why my fingers hurt so much...when I saw the flakes floating down I figured it out. Unfortunately,

The worst is yet to come as two more storms sweeping in from Alaska are expected to bring freezing temperatures to the area, with more snowfall at low elevations.

Ugh. I'm bringing my Thermos tomorrow.

Hazards

It's tough being a mailma'am. You wanna know how tough? So, last week at work I was on one of our walk-out routes—that's the kind where you don't use a mailmobile, you just grab a stack of mail and your satchel and head out the Post Office on foot. So while the regular guy was whooping it up on Kauai with his new girlfriend, I was watching the ink run on the sodden mail in my hands, since we got about five inches of rain these past seven days.

At least the rain wasn't particularly cold, or the ground frosty, or windy out. Those gusts coming off the cold, cold Pacific Ocean hurt. Especially in shorts.

The regular, though, he's a smart guy. Those walk-out routes use big green relay boxes to store the mail until the carrier gets to that part of the route. And this regular has rain gear stashed in each and every box, just in case. So on Saturday when the drizzle turned into a downpour I tucked the mail under my arm and high-tailed it to the nearest relay to grab a slicker. I threw my thoroughly-soaked cotton windbreaker in the box and trudged on.

By the time I got my windbreaker back (from the regular relief carrier who'd gone out that day) later Monday afternoon, it wasn't yet starting to smell, but it was pretty close. Still damp, still wadded up. If it had warmed up any, or if the sun'd come out, the heat inside the metal relay box might have dried my little jacket, but it rained all weekend.

And now my shoes smell. I never thought about it, but lawns have just as much dog pee as anything else a dog might deposit. And cutting across lawns all over town month after month, dewey, fog-kissed, urine-tainted lawns in leather shoes...so yeah, when my shoes get really wet, they smell like dog pee.

And then today I stepped in dog poo.

WTF

The Employer giveth, and the Employer taketh away.

Greg and I have a running bet: he gets a dollar every time work calls me to come in earlier than my scheduled start time. The pot goes down a dollar when I'm scheduled for a day off and don't get called in.

The pot's quite large.

I got yesterday (Friday) off, all of it, as scheduled. No dollar for Greg. And it was sunny after mid-day!

Now, even though it's Saturday it feels like Monday. Especially now that I got called at 6:11 a.m. to come in as soon as possible.

Tales of the Far North

A short pause in Egypt blogging while I go through the bazillion uncataloged photos. In the meantime, I have a couple of Humboldt Co. tales for you:

This one's from the Co-op grocery store by the New Vitality Homeland. A guy came through the checkstand with a package of turkey oven bags. Chatty, ever-so-friendly Jason, on bagger duty, starts telling the guy, "Yeah, turkey! It tastes so much better than chicken. I love it; eat it all the time..." etc. The cashier and someone else in line are laughing at all this. After the customer left the store, the cashier told Jason, "You know people buy those to put pounds [of marijuana] in, right?"

Well, no. That was news to Jason (and me). Turns out a representative of the company that makes those turkey oven bags flew out to Arcata to find out why why the Co-op sells more turkey oven bags than any other store, year-round. The cashier then said, Didja ever notice what else is on the shelves next to the turkey oven bags? [Trimming] scissors and jars? Oh yeah, it might not be on the overhead placard, but it's true nonetheless: Arcata's supermarket has a marijuana supply aisle.

The second story is from work. And does not involve dog poo!

During break one of the carriers was telling us how, when he was working down in Eureka, he had this one address that was on a hillside, with flights and flights of stairs between the street and the front door. He used to just leave one of those little brown notice slips when they got packages too big to fit in the mailbox, but then the lady of the house complained to the postmaster about it.

So now the carrier has a certified letter for that address and trudges up the steps to the front door—where he can see right into the living room as the curtains are open, where Mister and Missus Occupant are getting it on in plain view. The carrier started to turn away, remembered the complaint, so he turned back and knocked on the door and got Mister Occupant to sign for the letter.

The carrier said that after that, if he brought a certified letter or parcel up to the door, Missus Occupant would never answer the door.

Lawn Bomb

One of the hazards of the mailman biz is dogs. Of course!, you say, but it's not aggressive dogs, it's dog poop. Old poop, fresh poop, hiding in lawns all over town. And since I'm staring intently at the mail in my arms and not where my feet are landing, it can lead to stinky problems. Nobody wants to sit in a mailmobile that reeks of dog poop.

My so-far worst incident has been with a pile of...I'm not sure it was poop, and I'm not sure it was from a dog. Whatever put it on the lawn, the substance itself, judging from its smell, was the result of an encounter with some bad crab. So it must have been a dog because really? Who else would eat something like that?

It took two days of deordorizing in the bathtub to get the stink off my shoes.

But that was the worst. Usually it's a casual whiff of something not right leading to a sole inspection and vigorous rubbing on a clean patch of lawn. Most of the time? It's not even my shoes; a shift in the wind is bringing up the scent of cow patty from the Arcata bottoms. That's right: when the wind is right, Arcata smells a lot like shit.

Sprinkles My Ass

On my way to grab a cup of fair-trade coffee a Subaru almost hit me in the Co-op parking lot. Could only be better if it had been driven by a Tibetan.

Best yet that I didn't actually get hit.

...

Title of the post refers to today's best quote: I walked outside on break (on my way to almost meet the Subaru) and said "Oh, it's sprinkling!" in the same tone you'd use to announce, "ooh, puppies!" To which one of our more grizzled, chain-smokin' carriers replied, "Sprinkles my ass. That's rain."

...

Eleven days and then it's vacation. Rock on!

Mailmanwoman

I got my first holiday cheer from one of my customers yesterday. The card was addressed to

"Bones" my lady mail carrier

Mmm, nothing beats a box of fudge when your shoes are soaked and it's pouring rain. Well, yes: booze beats fudge, but I was driving. In that circumstance, fudge wins.

It's been cold enough this week that I finally busted out my rain pants and snow socks—which I wear with my shorts. Of course. Hard-core delivery people always wear shorts.

Surprise

I'm surprised to be surprised by this: maybe cats really do consider people their personal servants.

A dog? Now, a dog has got a job to do, and it usually involves barking at me, or sometimes saying very nasty things in dog-speak. But I respect the seriousness with which they take their position as guardians, even when they're trying to bite me or shredding the mail I've shoved through the slot.

But the cats. The cats look at me and say, "Oh, good. You're here. Open this door for me." Just like that, ordering me around. No "hello, how's your day, if you have a moment would you let me in?" Nuh-uh. Every so often one will say, "Open this door for me, please," so I ring the doorbell and continue on my way.

Know what else I'm surprised I'm surprised by? All the pot-smoking! I'm no naif, but geez, there's a lot of pot-smoking going on in this town! I smell it when people answer the door. I smell it walking down the street. I smell it coming like exhaust from the car ahead of me. If we didn't have a prevailing onshore breeze we'd have a permanent cloud of cannibis smog sitting over Arcata.

Wait; one more thing surprises me. In the whole of Del Norte county, the only thing between Arcata and those California-hatin' Oregonians, there is exactly one incorporated town. One!

She Doesn't Know

I saw Mrs S today, out walking the dogs. She's the one who told me how Tasi Drive got its name: it's what she and her husband used to call their dog, short for Tassle, part of her kennel name. As theirs was the first house on the street, and none of the other residents minded, they changed it to Tasi.

As I was heading back out I saw Mrs S had stopped to chat with a neighbor, so I pulled over and got out my little bag of dog biscuits, giving one to each dog. The little long-haired dachshund I'd seen before happily took the biscuit from my fingers, but the other dog, a black-and-white Pomeranian, just looked at it. Mrs. S said, "Oh, she's a rescue dog; we just got her Friday. She doesn't know what treats are."

Christ. I put the biscuit down and half-turned away, and she came over and took it off the ground, chewed it slowly. Mrs. S and the neighbor continued chatting and I drove on.