An Open Letter to the Postal Service


Dear Postal Service of [Unnamed Country],

You are the bane of my existence.  I have yet to wrap my head around how you still remain a viable shipping option for parcels of various sizes.  I have seen many confusing things happen in my move from Kitchener to Iqaluit.  I’d like to relay them to you at this time.

I have appreciated the ability to have my mail forwarded in the past, so thank you.  I don’t want this to be all bad.  However, in my most recent foray, your lack of attention to detail has caused me to have four months of postal mail redirected elsewhere.  When I spoke to your representative in Kitchener to forward my mail to “General Delivery”, she reassured me that filling out the form with that in my new address would work just fine.

My arrival in Nunavut heralded much success in seeing further mail debacle.  Upon my attempts to obtain a post office box, as I was to be a new resident, I was advised that I would need to prove that I was going to be living here…a letter from an employer, driver’s license or something of the like.  Fortunately, my new manager was standing next to me and could vouch for my employment.  Unfortunately, the postal employee didn’t know who my manager was and said a letter on letterhead from my employer would be sufficient.  Satisfied, I left to obtain said letter.

I returned to your office the next day, dear postal service of [unnamed country].  A new face greeted me with a new story.  I would now not need a letter from my employer, but an actual physical address to prove I lived here.  This is a task that for some is easy…but for someone with as many housing problems as mail problems, proved to be most difficult.  Lucky for me, once I had housing, you didn’t go back on your word, and I received a post office box.

You’ll recall that I mentioned my mail would be able to be forwarded to General Delivery.  The employee didn’t have any red flags go up when I said that’s where it needed to go…she was mistaken.  I received several phone calls advising me that I would have to contact you with a P.O. Box in order to forward my mail.  If only your south hand knew what your north hand was doing…I have no idea how much mail was simply “returned to sender”.

Eventually, of course,  I was able to contact you to advise that you did in fact allow me to have a sacred P.O. Box, and so my southern mail could be forwarded, and I could finally change my address with the individuals and organizations that needed to send me mail.  And so I waited.  And waited.  And waited.  Three months with no forwarded mail.  I wasn’t entirely worried as I had changed my address with most folks, but still, I was a little concerned that I was missing something.

But, who would have guessed that two weeks ago, I would receive an email from someone who works for the same people I do, stating “I believe I have been forwarded something that was meant to go to you”.  Sure enough, it appears that rather than accepting the P.O. Box I gave you (we’ll say “AODE”), you decided to send it to DOOA.  Makes sense right?  To just make up a post office box to forward someone’s mail to?

(Source: WriteOnResults.com)

The saga continues as I was awaiting a few packages over the past week or so.  When I visited you, I came across a card in my P.O. Box indicating I had something to be picked up.  I brought the card to the front, and the employee handed me my package.  But wait…that’s not my box number…that’s not even my name!  I returned the package promptly and left, empty-handed.

The next day I returned…with the hopes that one of my packages had arrived.  Another card was waiting for me, and as I went to the counter, I confirmed this card actually had my name on it.  The employee retrieved my package and handed it over.  As I held it, I couldn’t imagine what this was that I was receiving.  I was awaiting a screen to repair my camera, but this package was much too big.  I looked down at the name, and dejected, it was not mine.  I had been handed the wrong package.  I turned to advise the employee, but she had already moved on to the next person in line.  I caught the eye of the next gentleman in line, and he nodded to indicate that I could break back into the line to return the package.  Which was a good thing.  Because it ended up being that it was his package I was holding.  I mean, what are the chances??  In any case, since the employee had already scanned that my package had been retrieved, and tossed away the card I used to retrieve it, there was a whole debacle over finding the package that was actually there waiting for me.  Turns out the card had the wrong retrieval number on it – off by one digit.  I did finally receive my package however (and my camera is now fixed).

One last thing to report to you before I move on.  About those packages I was waiting for.  I know that you’ve had them probably on the Wednesday and Friday that I checked last week.  And that you’ve probably been sitting on loads of people’s packages in the same way.  Just letting them pile up in the back…not getting the cards out.  And I forgive you.  Because you must have had everyone working this past weekend to get every single one of the cards out.  I now have my packages…and you have line-ups.

You’re not the only postal service with whom I take issue.  After all, it was the [unnamed country] Postal Service that sent my wedding dress to Africa.

I simply must ask…are you conspiring against me with my evil car?  There seems to be some family resemblance with the horns and forked tail.

With regards,
She.Is.Just.A.Rat

Angry, fire-breathing, horned, fork-tailed mailbox. Yeah, I'm talkin' to you. (Source: foundlocally.com)

I Wanna Be Sedated


I’m stressed.  You can tell, because I haven’t even been blogging.  In fact, I’m so disappointed in the lack of writing I’ve been doing, that you should go check out Ian’s latest article.  It’s about McDonald’s advertising.  You’ll love it.  Go.  I’ll be here when you get back, I promise. Continue reading