Join Me in Snarkville

I’m going to assume that you are all tired of hearing about my new love affair with my robot. I’m seriously loving the clean floors, the automatic nature of setting him loose and coming back to a cat hair, dust bunny free world, except when he escapes and eats a sock. It is so different than anything I could imagine. But alas, I must be boring you with all of that nonsense.

So, I bring you, ‘Postal Revenge,’ a new low chapter in the book that is Frankenhouse and all that Frankenhouse has to offer.

The backstory:

You’ve heard me talk of how slow ‘customs’ is in Snarkville before. How it can take a LONG time for packages to leave. Well, some of this I hate to admit is the Queen’s fault. I get a package all put together and then realize, I must take it TO the post office. I hate going to the post office. Unlike our old East Coast hamlet where the post office was a neighborhood locale and had 2 people working with hardly ever a line (plus Prince being around much of the day meant he could do it), Snarkville has ONE post office for the whole town! One. And 2 people working. 2 of the rather nastier kind of the postal employees and not the friendly smiley types I prefer. So, I decided that since either of these could snap at anytime, I would avoid said post office. Hence, packages take awhile for me to build courage to go.

Background piece, the second:

When we lived on the other side of the world, we could leave any package near the post box (with the right postage on it) and it would just disappear and arrive where it was supposed to. I don’t think we ever called or submitted a request for a package pick-up (and if we did, Prince, don’t share — it makes my story that much better, k?). So, after moving here, I treated my own mailbox as much the same pick-up/drop-off location, thus insuring I could avoid the post office. Problems:

1. One of the first mailings I did was magazine to all my clients. This was nearly 150 mailings, that I was kind enough to put out in my box over a series of days. By the third day, the postman stopped picking them up, completely. In fact, he left them in the box and crammed my mail in the box with them. HMMM.
2. I asked the postman (we don’t have boxes on the street, so you get to meet the postman) what about boxes one day. He said, “You MUST call the post office, because if I don’t know in advance to stop by with my truck, I won’t pick it up.” Ok, no problem, I think. Until I realize that he is up and down my street all day after he’s dropped my mail — which means he could easily swing back by with his truck (I understand him not wanting to walk the neighborhood with my boxes) and pick up a random box, right?
3. So, I test this little theory of mine. I leave two boxes out on the porch for him to take. He left them on day one. Then I think — ok, he’s seen them, he’ll know to swing back by tomorrow to get them. He left them again. I apparently am a rebel and can’t follow directions.
4. Of other interest, the first week we were here, he rang the bell to introduce himself (I do kinda miss when my postal carrier was a faceless truck I didn’t have to make nice-nice with — mind you our carrier on the east coast was also VERY afraid of dogs, VERY, VERY afraid of my oh, so scary lump of cocker spaniel fur), he informed me that *HE* not the post office in town takes care of the mail forwarding.  So, if I saw stuff for the previous residents, just put it back in the box he’d take care of it, because it was a fill-in post guy.  (I STILL get crap from the previous owners — I throw it away now.)  So, I kinda think my carrier has a control issue, but I could be wrong.

So, in an effort to follow directions and actually to get my postman to PICK.UP.MAIL. I sent in a request yesterday for a package pick-up.

This is what is waiting for him.

What would *THAT* be? That would be 71 boxes to go to clients (Christmas promotion from a cruise line). Each box weighes 7 ounces, which makes this total over 50 pounds. I could have been nice and put them in a big box — oh, but no — that would make it easier on him — and after all, I’ve had to go TO the post office TWICE because he couldn’t make it easier on me.

I’m a truly horrible person. I’m sorry. I’m giggling, but I’m truly sorry.

UPDATE: (10am): Knock on the door.  Drives the dog nutty.  Postman (the man who leaves outgoing mail IN the box) informs me that they got the message about the boxes and there is ONE truck who comes around to pick them up, she should be here soon.  Cool.

UPDATE: (11am): Boxes still there.

UPDATE: (12pm): Boxes still there.

UPDATE: (1pm): Boxes still there.

UPDATE: (2pm): Boxes still there.  Begin to think about calling the post office. Refrain, eat a cookie instead.

UPDATE: (3pm): Boxes still there.

UPDATE: (3:30pm): Mail truck pulls up.  Postman (my NORMAL, everyday postman) hops out and begins to load my boxes.  Dog goes nuts.  So, I’m thinking the woman driving the box picking up post truck is a myth, right?