But whatever you call it, it hit me last weekend. What's more, it threw the post office into something of a turmoil ... and completely embarrassed my youngest son in the process.

"Johnny B. Goode" was blaring on the car's CD player and my son and I were singing and strumming our air guitars to the wild tunes. We needed to make a quick stop at the post office and then we were on our way to test drive some new cars.

But it seems that I forgot something when I went to mail my packet to the State Franchise Tax Board. And I remembered that I forgot just about 15 seconds after dropping the envelope into the big blue postal box.

"Uh, oh!" I exclaimed. Somehow, my son needed no further explanation.

"You forgot to put stamps on that envelope, didn't you!" he said. Sometimes that boy is just downright intuitive.

"Uh, I think I forgot the return address label, too," I admitted. "Do you think you can reach your hand down that slot and pull it back out?"

"I think they frown on that," he said. That's when I broke the news to him that ruined the entire day.

"I think that means we're going to have to go into the post office and ask for help."

"We? What do you mean we? I'm not going in there. You're the moron who forgot the stamps," he said.

Johnny was "playin' a guitar just like ringin' a bell" as I pulled the car into one of the stalls in the front of the building, and I was busy trying to convince my son that I needed his help—that I needed him to buy the stamps while I searched out a postal worker who might be able to retrieve my envelope.

"Fine," he snapped. "But please don't make a big scene. I might know somebody in there."

Well, he certainly could have known someone, because there sure was a large Saturday afternoon crowd lined up for stamps, packages and whatever else folks purchase at the post office. He went to the machine for stamps while I set out in search of help.

"Hello," I said to a pleasant-looking woman behind the counter. Then, almost whispering, I explained what I had done. "I'll go try to find a supervisor who might be able to help."

There, it was done—quietly, discreetly, nobody was the wiser ... or so I thought.

As I waited for the supervisor, a lady nearby turned to me from her place in line and said, "Oh, I'm glad someone else does that!" I tried to explain that I don't usually do things like that, but she wasn't listening. She just went on to say, "That's just something people our age start to do." She looked like she was about 65 or 70 ... I had the sudden urge to color my hair.

My son, who was back in time to overhear the conversation, was by now burying his face in his hands in a futile attempt to hide his identity and disavow any relationship to me. That's when the second lady walked by.

"I know just how you feel," she said. "I tossed my wallet in there one time. I didn't get it back for two weeks!"

Two weeks? Well, at least it was just something going to the folks at the State Franchise Tax Board ... we all know how patient they can be. Did I ever tell you what a wonderful job I think the governor is doing?

That's when the supervisor appeared and in a booming, jovial voice for all to hear said, "What'd you do now?" like I'm some guy who does this sort of thing all the time. Then he added with a laugh, "It helps to put stamps on envelopes before mailing them!"

By now the entire line of customers was watching and laughing ... hey, what else is there to do while standing in line at the post office?

The supervisor opened the box and helped us fish out the envelope, all the while sharing the story with every car that passed through the driveway. We slapped on the stamps and raced for the car.

"Boy, you'd think I was the first guy to ever do something like that," I told my son as we drove away. He just shook his head and muttered, "Yeah, that was definitely a senior moment."

Want to talk? Call me at 408.354.3110, ext. 31, or drop me a note at dsparrer@svcn.com.