Postal Employee Newman

Some of you have known for some time that I have been in the process of obtaining my passport. It is a process because of the time and energy that it takes just to haul my ass into the post office, an establishment of this country that I hate whole-heartedly.  I dread going, and I will do anything at all in my power to prevent going.  I celebrated the day when my supermarket started selling postage stamps, and UPS installed drop boxes.  But I digress…

First, I had to acquire the necessary paperwork from the post office.  I stood in line for about thirty minutes while the huddled masses made their way through the unnecessary long line to the two postal employees working the counter.  So pleasant are these two that they just exude joyfulness to everyone around them.  (Note—if you’ve ever been to an American post office, you know that I am being sarcastic here.)  Once I got to the counter, I was greeted by said employee, who proceeded to shove a form at me, and telling me that I needed to gather the appropriate paperwork before I can have the passport photos taken.  I left the post office, feeling slightly confused, embarrassed and stupid, because apparently I look like an idiot, since I had just been treated like one. 

I returned to my humble abode, settled myself into a chair, and filled out the application form.  Now for anyone that has applied for a passport will understand, the paperwork is not the easiest to understand.  Especially when one is trying to comprehend exactly what is needed for proof of citizenship, what copies are needed, what originals are needed, and what the fees are.  The State Department website is absolutely no help in the matter, unless you want to know what countries NOT to travel to.  After reading and rereading the forms, I finally decipher that I need an authorized copy of my birth certificate, a copy of my driver’s license, the form and the fee.  I cannot ascertain the fee because evidently it changes every day.  One day it was $135.00, the next it was $115.00.  Luckily, I had a stamped and authorized copy of my birth certificate from when we applied for our marriage license.  I rejoice because this is one less government establishment that I would have to visit.  I put everything together that I need, and return regretfully to the post office.

Today there was one postal employee working the counter, and she was none too happy to wait on any customers.  We were inconveniencing her cigarette break time, I guess.  After 20 minutes, I finally made it to the front of the line, and handed over my paraphernalia.   She scrutinized the forms, happily informing me what I filled out wrong, and what information I was missing.  I had forgotten that in my 31 years, I did not change my last name only once, but twice.  When I was born, my last name was Ring, from my father.  When I was sixteen and trying to forget I had a father, I changed my name to my mother’s name, Di Buono.  When I got married, I changed my name again, this time adding the Russo to the Di Buono.   And apparently, if you add an “e” to your middle name, you are no longer who you thought you were.  I had put on the form that my middle name was “Anne” and on my birth certificate it was “Ann.”   I had no idea that would be such a showstopper, and I was almost foiled in my quest.  She decided since I didn’t look like a terrorist, she would use some whiteout on the aberrant “e.”  Phew, that was a close one. 

After going over my paperwork with a fine tooth comb, I was told to write a check out to the Department of State for $110.00.  I laughed to myself because the State Department website today had a current fee of $120.00.  Then I was charged $40.00 for the post office processing of the passport paperwork and the taking of the photos.  She told me to wait for her out near the post office boxes, and she would be along shortly to take my photos.  I walked out into the lobby, looking for some sort of sign of where to meet her.  I heard some rummaging near an ancient door that looked like it hadn’t been opened since 1943.  I heard her unlock it and she had to push all of her weight against it in order to open it wide enough for a human to pass through.  I guess I had been correct about the 1943 assumption.  I sat down in a chair in front of the camera.  She prepared the camera for the photo-op, and told me to smile.  Now here is the dilemma.  I am in the post office, I’ve been here for 30 minutes, I don’t want to smile.  But I squeeze one off, although not very convincing.  I have terrible flashbacks of my DMV photo that is on my license and have a momentary sense of an oncoming panic attack.  I am told by postal employee to wait for her outside.  The line now is all the way into the lobby, so I skirted around the sullen faces to wait for her to come back.  At this point, I had no idea what I was waiting for, but I was told to wait, so wait I do.  Five minutes later, she emerged from the annals of the post office, and told me that I was all set.  All set?  That’s it?  I just handed over all of my pertinent vital statistics to a complete stranger without so much as a receipt or proof that I was ever there.  Feeling a little numb and a little violated, I ran back to my car, and thanked the Lord that I made it out of there while keeping most of my sanity.

According to the State Department website, I will be receiving my passport in 8 to 10 weeks.  We’ll see how that goes.  Of course I am at their mercy, since I have no confirmation number to check the status, and actually no proof that I was ever there.  All I have to show is the PTSD—post traumatic stress disorder.  “When you control the mail, you control…information.”