A Pox upon the USPS!!

I’m in desperate need of a rant and ensuing sympathy. I’m so mad I could . . . I dunno, actually yell at someone in person. Tear something valuable into pieces. Spit in someone’s eye.

Toward the end of March, I realized that I hadn’t gotten any of my usual mail. It’s easy for me to lose track, because it’s not like I get a ton, mostly just the regular bills. I paid them all online and wondered what was up. I waited a while longer, hoping they just got mixed up in the mail or something, but when April was winding down and I still hadn’t gotten anything, I called the post office.

“I’ll leave a note for the carrier,” said the woman on the line, sounding bored.

Meanwhile, all my creditors and the payroll office got the last month’s bills sent back to them and went into FULL PANIC MODE, contacting me with urgent inquiries for my new address. Oh, except the credit card company. They just blocked my account without telling me, which caused at least one rather humiliating experience at a restaurant. I made the rounds of phone calls and emails, telling everyone to calm down, I hadn’t moved.

So I waited eagerly for the mail to come. The weeks passed. I got some mail back, the stuff that had been returned to sender and then forwarded again, so I figured that meant we were back in business. I waited some more. I allowed plenty of time for all the stupid snail-mail to sort itself out.

Then one lovely morning, about the end of May, I got another email from the payroll office telling me they’d gotten MORE pay stubs sent back. Ten minutes later, I was on the phone with the post office, talking to a slightly-more-awake-sounding guy. He looked up my address and told me that I had moved without leaving a forwarding address. How thoughtless of me. I managed to persuade him that the computer was wrong, and I hung up satisfied that my troubles were over. I congratulated myself for not saying most of what I’d intended to. (I didn’t even ask about the promised “note” from the last call—they probably tried to mail it.)

BUT WAIT! There’s More!

My credit card got blocked again last week. Before today I still hadn’t received a single piece of mail (my roommates have gotten plenty), but today I got a green piece of cardstock, with “CARRIER ALERT!” and “DO NOT DELIVER THIS CARD” on it. It has my name, address, and the instruction “Fwd ind” on it, with “Special Services” beginning on March 19, 2007. I just got off the phone with the post office again.

“Oh,” said the lady on the line (“Please let this be a new, smarter person,” I thought), “that’s not for you, it’s supposed to be just for the letter carriers. Just put it back in the mailbox and they’ll get it.”

Meek, mild-mannered me might have said, “Okaaay,” if a little doubtfully, and put it back. It’s the USPS, whom neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night, nor the winds of change, nor a nation challenged, will stay from the swift completion of their appointed rounds. Ever. But I admit that my faith in this area has lapsed. In very small, non-confusing words, I explained that I did not want my mail to be “fwd ind.” I didn’t want it to even resemble “fwd ind.” From now on, my mail and “fwd ind” must be strangers forever. (And if “fwd ind” keeps me for any reason from the prompt receipt of Harry Potter 7, someone’s really going to suffer.) I think she grasped my feelings on the subject.

Or at least I did until she said, “I’ll leave a note for the carrier, okay?” (I told her that the scream she heard wasn’t me, it was just static on the line or something.) I stayed on the line and made sure this note was at least accompanied by dire warnings and my phone number. I also decided to write a note of my own, which should raise my chances, however slight, of someone of minute intelligence actually reading it.

So that’s where it is now. Of course, I’ve been faithfully paying my bills online, and whenever available, I’ve asked to have all documents and statements sent through email. Let this be a warning to all of you: never trust someone who leaves a note instead of fixing the problem, never assume that your concern has been accurately addressed, and never overestimate the intelligence of Happy Valley postal workers.