Snowflakes in France

Reflections of a 20-something woman in publishing

Month: March, 2009

Why can’t we just use owls?

You’re familiar with the long lines, the slow and miserable service, that the USPS offers. But add to those grouchy post office faces an unintelligible accent combined with my general post ignorance, and the bad experience turns a bit scary.

It is true that I don’t know how to package things properly. I’m a terrible gift wrapper. I also like to read from left to write, top to bottom, as most Western people do. So why USPS decided one day that the “To:” field on a box should be in the bottom right corner like it’s at the end of a novel page, I just don’t understand.

Don’t mailmen read books? Wouldn’t they be slightly tempted to send it to the return address in the upper left hand corner before ever getting to the address at the bottom of the page? Maybe it’s a good thing I’m not a mailman …

As you can imagine, the guy behind the counter yelled at me. I couldn’t quite figure out why because his Indian accent was so thick. So then he started laughing at me. This is when I become a naive, uninfluence idiot who doesn’t know how to write an address on a package. AKA this is when the post office became scary.

I knew I was going to have to go back, because my mom’s birthday was in a week. And then my dad’s and my sister’s were two weeks after that. So I decided to minimize the damage and send them all together.

My second trip was much more successful. I avoided the man who laughed at me, and luckily ended up at the Indian woman’s counter instead. I was only confused when she asked me if I was sending my package to K-Y. As in the jelly? I wondered, but no, she meant Kentucky.

All-in-all, I think I’m becoming a much smarter sender.

Advertisements

A restless state of in-between

I have such a short attention span. I find something right in one part of my life and want everything else to immediately line up accordingly.

My current situation is lovely. I went to see a Saturday matinee on Broadway with a friend, and spent Sunday browsing odd little vintage and costume boutiques. I made ravioli cassorole that should last me at least until Wednesday, and ended the evening with a glass of wine and about 30 pages of Emma — my favorite Jane Austen book — before chatting to Jon and then falling asleep. Pretty typical weekend.

But here I am, Monday morning and it’s a snow day, which leaves me with nothing to do except contemplate my existance. Which is to say, find fault with my current situation. My room is a small disaster with too many shoes and not enough closet. I’m aching for a dog — it’s been five years since I’ve lived with one and at this stage of desperate longing, every mutt on the street sets off some dreamy soundtrack in my head as I resist reaching for him in a violation of the New Yorker way. But how could I possible condemn such an innocent creature to this room or expect my roommates to accept such a change?

Thus, I must move. But I can’t move — I don’t have quite enough money. And even if Jon were to get a place with me, then we’d have to decide on the city. (Although I think I might actually be somewhat successful in persuading him toward Hoboken) In any case, I can’t move until at least the summer because who wants to take on a move when a foot of snow could suffocate every street across the East coast on any given Monday?

I’m stuck here, in a restless state of in-between, a place that wouldn’t be that bad if I wasn’t so looking forward to the next best thing.