Yes, that Goat Smell at the Post Office was me.

    Good thing I get so pissed off so easily or I would never have anything to write about. 
    Like just now, I fell, farted, then lost my American Express card some where in between.
    Its a gorgeous, well to me, at least, foggy morning in my little mountain town.
    Its raining.
    Its snowing.
    I’m baking.
    What a glorious day.
   I drove in the snow, slush and hail to the post office.
   Oh yeah, did I mention I had goat cheese for lunch?
   And cheese of the goat doesn’t always, umm.. agree with me?
    Good thing I had nothing to do today but watch horse racing and the rain outside my window, play with my cats and bake all day. I did however have to mail some thing from our local post office’ yea for Amazon and selling my useless crap to complete strangers, and also cleaning out the garage.
   It was a short drive to town for me on some slippery snowy mountain roads. It had been snowing off and on all morning, but not really sticking much.
   I walked into the office of the post office, slipped on the wet floor and promptly fell on my ass.
   And ripped one as I did so.
   Sigh… No… This time that roar was not my farty ring tone. It was a mixture of goat cheese and my very angry digestive system. Some how in the fall, my Am Ex must have slipped out of my pocket, because as soon as I got home I realized it long gone.
    It’s bad enough that I ran into Johnny in the parking lot, kind of wanted to warn him the reason the post office smells that rancid goat is yours truly.
   But I didn’t.
   Now that I’ve returned to my warm cabin, I really do not feel like calling the post office and saying,
   “Yes hi, remember me?” Because clearly, yes, they will remember me, the girl in the super cute wellies who made our post office smell like a farm house.
   Alas, the story does not end there.
   I went home, discovered the missing card and searched frantically for the phone number for lost or stolen Am Ex cards on the American Express website.
    Couldn’t find it anywhere.
   Now, you would think I would have this on speed dial, as I have lost my Am Ex card… five times now over three years? (And discovered not to use it as a book mark in a Ann Coulter book I only read every two years)
    Yet, I do not have the American Express phone number in my speed dial, so I googled American Express lost or stolen cards, dialed away and was asked if I wanted to complete the call in English or French.
   That seemed a bit odd to me. I mean usually in very bilingual California the choices are English or Espanol. But my lunch was getting cold and those brownies were not going to frost themselves; I had things to do so I powered through. When a lovely girl with a very strong Canadian accent started to help me, I had an idea something was not right. She could not find my account information, because I had called American Express Canadia, eh!
    Really? Why does American Express make it so hard for their customers to deal with something so time sensitive? I thought to myself, picturing in my head Bubba filling up his F350 with eighty dollars of gas right now, thanks to my missing card. Then he would of course head to our local gas station to grab some Miller High Life and chew tobacco.
    It took me fifteen minutes on the phone to cancel that card, what with being transferred back to the non maple syrup end of the continent and all. Glad I got that verbal rant out of my system, time for lunch.

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