Monthly reports are supposed to be in to the supervisor absolutely no later than the fifth of every month. These are not a pleasure, and I dinked around with too many other things to get them done on Friday.

Took Saturday off. Entirely. Laying in bed with the wife doing crossword puzzles. Worked some on Sunday, but that was mainly getting the GPS bracket mounted on the dash of the new truck (always fun drilling holes in virgin plastic) and heeler-proofing the door handle.

So today was the reports.

Had to be the reports, since it takes them a day to travel by mail to the office. And today is the 4^th.

If I kept better notes, the daily activity reports would have been simple, and fast. I didn't. Haven't for months (started about the time I started writing here... coincidence?). Even used entries in this diary to remind myself what I did on some days.

Getting near the deadline. Last time for guaranteed outgoing mail at our post office is 16:15. Although, if I ask nicely, or look desperate, the postmaster will take my stuff until 16:30.

Boss calls. Lost almost a half hour there. At least three calls from a game warden doing exactly the same thing I'm doing, only the deadline at his post office is an hour and fifteen minutes later. Each time he either needed to know the proper computer coding, or which day we did what.

The 16:15 deadline goes and passes. Still entering data and answering the phone. That means driving to the next town, where the p.o. stays open 'til 17:30. Actually only to 17:25, since their clocks are five minutes fast. Have told the clerks about it, but they do not care. (My timepiece is set to the National Bureau of Standards' atomic (cesium) clock. I know what time it is.)

Five o'clock. Data is entered and double checked. Start printing.

This wonderful little office printer, which really is a great machine, decides it is the day for paper jams. Three, in fact. Last required a total reboot to reinitialize the settings.

17:15. Heeler sisters and I are hauling ass to town, with the reports (sans postage... that will be important later). Meet the wife coming home from work at the first intersection, and stop briefly to visit.

In the middle of the intersection. Small towns are great that way.

Pull into the city p.o. parking lot and check the watch. 17:30. I can see the clerk windows are closed. Okay, should be no more than three ounces. Buy three stamps at the vending machine and throw it down the slot, and we're all fine. Final pickup of outgoing mail at the slots isn't until 18:00.

No vending machine.

It's been months since I've been in here. When did they get rid of the stamp vending machine?

Whoever heard of a full-service post office without stamps?

Now, I once had a boss who was a real stickler for deadlines. Until I drove the 127 miles to deliver my reports on the due date. After that he was a little more tolerant. The current boss is not unreasonable, but I would like to make the deadline.

Part of this is guilt for doing more fun work on Friday. But I don't want to make the 254 mile trip tomorrow.

A school girl comes in, and buzzes the service door. Looking for her mom.

I know the clerk who opens the door. Ask him what happened to the stamp machines.

"What do you need?", he asks.

I tell him.

Now, as far as he is concerned, we are seven minutes past his closing time. But he takes my envelope to the back, weighs it, and I happen to have exact change (three ounces it was). And off my reports go.

Problem solved because in this town, postal employees aren't too hard-nosed to help someone out.

I love this place.

(And if you're a postal inspector and this clerk violated some rule or regulation, pretend I live in Winnemucca, Nevada. Go harass the postal clerks there.)