I wish I had had the presence of mind to get into one of those industries where everyone expects the customer service to be bad, like airlines or the post office.

I appreciate that both entail a lot of complexities and extenuating circumstances, and if I buy a plane ticket or mail a letter, my letter or my person will most likely get to the intended destination. Along the way, though, there’s a lack of attention to detail that can be annoying.

Everyone expects to be dehumanized and treated like a cow moving inexorably to the slaughterhouse when they fly. Its just part of the deal. That’s why I wish I worked there, so I could press home that feeling of listless abandonment of self with the zeal that only a government employee can manage. If I saw anyone smiling or laughing in line, I would immediately swoop down upon them and make sure they didn’t have any bottles of water larger than an ounce. Or I might make sure they know that shoes are only for government workers.

Take ‘em off, grandma! Lord only knows what you’re hiding in your crocs!

My mailman makes sure I know who is boss as well. This week he delivered a letter to my mailbox addressed to Kathleen Hodgson at my street address, but with apartment number “S”. I am apartment “1″. I’m also not Kathleen.

I put a note on it that said as much, and put it in the out box. The next day I found it back in my mailbox. So, I attached a second note:

No, buddy, I’m really not Kathleen! I promise! I’m sure she wants her greeting card or whatever it is. I do not.

I guess he didn’t take kindly to my note, because he got his revenge yesterday. I was waiting for a package of bicycle parts from the UK, so I left the door open to make sure if he came by I would hear him, but he used the ninja stealth that all mailmen have to sneak up to my door and put a note on it instead. Damn it.

The note said I should go to the post office this morning after 9am to pick up my items. Damn it, mailman! You couldn’t just say “Hello!” one time?

Oh well, I drove to the post office just a few minutes ago. I arrived at 9:50, and was the only person inside, including employees. None were visible. Eventually, a woman appeared and I handed her my note.

“Oh, I hope your parcel has made it, some of them haven’t come over yet.”

My parcel hadn’t made it.

“Come back after ten or eleven to check again if its here,” she told me.

I wanted to say “Well then why does it say 9am on here?” but that would be approximately as effective as pulling up my shirt and slapping myself a few times on the nipples. In fact, at least if I slapped myself and made some silly whooping noises one of us might get a laugh.

Asking why the note says to come too early is just a senseless waste of effort.

Come on, mailman! I need my bicycle parts damnit!

I was walking along, minding my own business.

I think that’s what people say when they want to set themselves up as the target of some action. It’s a phrase meant to paint them as a calm observer, just going about their lives with nary an unkind deed or thought toward anyone. That was me, just walking along the sidewalk toward the coffee shop.

I went inside, purchased a cup, and went around to the bank of metal coffee holders. I surveyed the chalk board on the wall which displayed the names of the coffees to choose from. There was a pretty girl standing there, waiting on some baked goods.

I chose the coffee whose description was “Sweet & Rich”, and pulled the plastic handle that makes the robot metal coffee holder pour its delicious contents into my cup.

“Sweet and rich,” I said to the girl. “That’s me.”

She giggled, I smiled, and then I walked off to fix my coffee the way I like it with various ingredients. I walked outside and headed toward home again.

That is how a visit to the coffee shop should go: get in, place an order, flirt with a pretty girl, get my cup of coffee, leave.

I was smiling and walking and generally just enjoying myself when I noticed a dog leashed to a metal pole. I made some smoochey sounds at it so that it could share in my good mood, but — swear to god — it gave me a sarcastic look! I stopped in my tracks and looked again, and I was not mistaken. I was definitely getting attitude from that dog. I frowned and stalked away.

What the hell, dog? Can’t you see I’m trying to spread some of my good humor to you? What’s with the look?

Jeez! We really have some judgmental dogs in this neighborhood.

Later on, I happened to see one of the girls who works at the coffee shop out and about, and she confirmed that that location of their shop is lots more judgmental as a whole.

Of course, she was talking about the people as being a little uptight, but I think that dogs are a reflection of their owners. Anyone who has ever lived with an angry roommate or live-in-special-someone can tell you that moods get transmitted quickly. Surely it must be the same for pets.

I should have waited around with that dog to see what sort of person the owner was, but he or she may have stabbed me or punched me in the face or something.

I might have gotten off easy with just a sarcastic look from the dog.

I am a person who has battled acne for most of his life. The detestable bumps do their level best to make me look like a complete douche. Unfortunately I can’t blame them for making me act like an idiot, as that’s the fault of my mind weasels.

Anyway, acting like an idiot can be pretty fun.

In the shower I have to scrub myself with various different kinds of soaps in order to keep blemishes at bay. I have a special soap for my back and shoulders, and another one for my face.

I don’t mind too terribly much. It’s not as though I’m the only person who has to be mindful of skin care, and in fact, I suspect some other people have it much worse than I do, but the things I like to do pretty much all involve being sweaty, so I shower and scrub frequently.

I’m always concerned that two of the soaps will have some sort of violent chemical reaction if they should come into direct contact with one another, so I take pains to make sure one is washed off before the next phase of Jim-scrubbing commences. I don’t want to accidentally blow a hand off because I didn’t know that my body wash is an acid and Foaming Facial Scrub is a base.

Scrubbing my face is my favorite part. The face soap is vaguely mentholesque, so it’s sort of like smearing mint chocolate chip ice cream on my face, something I’ve long ago had to give up for skin care and calorie intake reasons. I was just starting to scrub my face last night when my eyes caught sight of the face wash bottle. It says “Cleans deep down to the pores” on it.

I closed my eyes, began scrubbing, and thought about that. How deep down are my pores? Aren’t they right on top? Am I being swindled by my face scrub here?

I remember as a kid my mom wouldn’t let me shower and then immediately leave the house because she didn’t want me going out with my pores all open. Not being able to see them to gauge their state, I was without any sort of logical defense to this. So, I just showered early and then sat around a while, my pores presumably going about the business of closing in the safety of our home.

I still think about that when I am late for somewhere and take a hasty shower before I leave.

Yes, yes, I’m late, but damn it people I’ve got open pores here!

I’m not sure why or how, but going to the grocery store has become one of my favorite things. It is very close to my house, so I can easily ride my bike if the weather is nice. More importantly, I’ve been shopping there long enough that I know pretty much where everything is. If I go to a different store I might be looking for the spicy sausage or jalapeno slices all day.

Who knows? The different store might not even have the spicy sausage I like. Don’t they know who I think I am?

It’s like dating someone new and getting used to the things they do differently than the previous person, although it’s much easier to ask a grocery store employee where the sausage is than trying to coax a new dating partner into things, I find.

“Listen, Cheryl, my previous Cheryl always woke up before me when I got drunk and got me a glass of water and a couple of Advils. So, you know… If you could think about that…”

At my grocery store, they have a camera pointed at the doors with a monitor clearly visible. I assume this is a theft deterrent as it’s a passive reminder that you’re on video in the store, but I use it to gauge how I look on the move in my clothes since I can see myself walking for a few steps on the way in. Usually in a mirror you can get a look at a few angles, but not an action shot. That’s valuable intel.

Have you ever seen video of yourself walking around in some clothes that you thought looked good on you, only to realize that they only looked good when you were still in the mirror? Now you know how to guard yourself against this problem. Go to the grocery store and prance around the exit for a while, craning your neck to look at the security monitor like I do.

I imagine that deep in the dark recesses of the store some guy is on his break, wondering why his Cheryl doesn’t sleep over more, when all of a sudden some idiot appears on monitor 3, twisting this way and that to examine his own ass in a pair of khaki shorts. It’s a misuse of store resources, I know, but I want to look my best.

Also, I’ve always thought it was good practice to park near the exit of a store rather than the entrance. That way you’ll be closer when you’re carrying a bunch of crap on the way out. I’ve short circuited that bit of wisdom entirely, however, by walking in the wrong way. The proper entrance also has a video monitor, but I think the lighting is slightly better in the out door.

After I’ve gotten a sense of how a particular outfit suits me, I grab up the plastic basket and get on with my shopping. Presumably, the guy in the back relaxes and goes back to enjoying his break, probably keeping a watchful eye on me as I seek out my favorite spicy meats.

I can’t blame him, but I’m not a security risk. I’m just vain and self-absorbed and they’re both completely legal.