Postal, please, release the hounds...

Ok, so I have learned something new today and I wish to share my new found knowledge with the world so that hopefully we can all have a better understanding of how one of this fine country's oldest institutions runs.
According to the United States Postal Service a "tracking number" is not an actual number used for "tracking." In fact, this is not even a number that this fine agency keeps on file. They simply print it on a nice little receipt, title it "Tracking Number" and send you on your way with your little security blanket.
Also, 2-Day delivery really means "We don't guarantee delivery in 2 days, that's more of an estimate and during the holidays we don't guarantee delivery at all. Did you insure it?"
To which I replied, "Yes, my father insured it."
"Then in 21 days we can track it."
"Why can't you track it now?"
"Has it been delivered?"
"No, that's why I want you to track it."
"We can't track a package until it has been delivered and signed for."
"Why would I want to track it if I have received it?"
"Listen, if you wanted it to be delivered your father should have used UPS."
OH MY GOD!
"So, a tracking number is not really a tracking number, is that what you are saying?"
"Yes, people were getting confused when we called it a Certified Mailing Number so we changed it to a more simple title."
"Ohh, and calling it a tracking number when it's not a tracking number is a lot less confusing, I can see your logic now."
"Listen lady, I've got a line of people to deal with. Merry Christmas, now get out of my window."
Thank you Betty Boope, US Postal Service Employee, you were oh so helpful. And yes, that was really her name.

Merry fucking Christmas

Supposedly one of the side effects of suffering a stroke is the inability to control ones verbal functions. That's why a lot of elderly people who have suffered strokes will shout profanities for no apparent reason. They also lack the ability to recognize the inappropriateness of this verbal assault, this is why I believe that my poor, sweet, normally Southern lady, of a mother has suffered a stroke.
No, she is not shouting profanities, but her ability to control her speech seems to be on a downhill slide.
Example 1
Her sweet next door neighbor gave her a purse for Christmas. My mother did no like the purse.
"Billie, sweetie, that was so sweet of you, BUT I just don't think I would carry it, it's just not my style."
(to me)"Honey, I think I might have hurt her feelings, should I have not said that?"
Example 2
She somehow weasled out of me, the horrible daughter, that I, out of extreme guilt, was having flowers delivered to her on Friday, Dec 23.
"Sweetie, I'm going to Georgia for Christmas so I won't be all alone since you won't come home,(I work Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, and the day after) so I won't be able to enjoy the flowers so I think you should just cancel them."
"Mother, it's a plant. It won't die in one weekend."
"Well, if it's a poinsettia I don't want it, I really don't like them."
"It's not a poinsettia, Mother."
Does she have to be found mentally unstable by an actual physician to have her committed or can I just sign off for that myself?

Every man's fantasy

Last week six of my fellow trolly dollies and I decided that we would travel to Istanbul to do our Christmas shopping. This seemed like a perfectly innocent idea at the time, because 1- 100% cashmere pashminas are $8, and 2- we all have husbands / boyfriends who have informed us that it is our womanly duty to provide them with gifts to hand out to the dozens of women they each work with and that said gifts must be work appropriate and cheap without appearing cheap, and 3- who wouldn't want to go to Istanbul with their girlfriends?
So, off we went. Well, after being pampered for nine hours in Business Elite on our flight over we found that we were too pooped to shop, so we decided fulfill every man's fantasy of flight attendants showering together and to indulge in a Turkish Bath.
HEAVEN!
Let me tell you, for $25 you can reach a new level of pleasure as long as you are willing to give up ALL of your inhibitions, and I mean all of them. If being in a 300 year old marble steam room completely naked being bathed by a huge Turkish woman who is also completely naked sounds scary then I don't recommend this experience. But, honestly, I have never felt more clean. This woman scrubbed me up and down in every single nook and cranny with a silk washcloth alongside three of my closest friends who were having the same experience. For the faint of heart I recommend wearing bikini bottoms, but honestly, it's heaven. Needless to say, Michael's souvenir from Istanbul was a silk washcloth.