In recently divorced news, I have stopped getting my mail. Charity filled out a change of address form so that her mail would reach her out at her mom’s, but because she filled it out incorrectly, all of my mail has been routed there as well. (Sigh) So, any female admirers that want to send me mash notes please wait a week or two until I can get them all straightened out, or just e-mail em to me at Captkahunah@bigkahunah.com. I admit, I’m a sucker for a well-written letter from an attractive woman, with or without the perfumed scent.
Anyway, trying to fix the problem was not what you call fun. On the list of Unites States Government offices that I want to avoid the rest of my life, the United States Post Office is right up there with the IRS. So I go into my local post office and explain the problem. The guy behind the counter just looked at me and said “Yep. That’s a problem.”. At this point I started to get that feeling you get just before your car starts to sputter on the highway due to a clogged fuel filter. So I repeat the problem to the guy, this time asking him what the heck I have to do to get my mail. He hollers into the back for someone named “Miss Charlotte”.
Now, I believe that names tend to influence a person’s development. For instance, “William Jefferson Clinton” wouldn’t have been everything you expect from an American president if he had a name like “Mortimer Dipthong”. A woman with a name of “Charlotte” is one you just know would find a turkey leg under her pillow, and then eat it while promising her boyfriend, “Billy-jack”, that she won’t eat poultry in bed anymore.
Fortunately, this Miss Charlotte was nothing like that. She was a sweet older lady understandably jaded from working in the Post Office for thirty years. So on my behalf, she calls the Post Office actually responsible for delivering my mail to my house. Their response: “Yep, That’s a problem”.
“Great. Just Great.” I think to myself, “Now that the Post Office in all its wisdom agrees that we have a problem, just how do I make sure I get my monthly issue of FHM? All that great stuff in Miracle on 34th Street about how serious the Post Office takes itself, and it being a crime to willfully misdirect mail still hasn’t stopped my ex wife from getting my gas bill! What happens when my issue of Playboy comes and my former mother in law passes out at the sight of it?”
Finally, Miss Charlotte gives up with the Postmaster on the phone. (When I said jaded, I meant it.) So, still sympathetic to my cause, she had me fill out a form changing my address from my current address to... my current address.
I know it sounds silly, but Miss Charlotte assured me she would send a personal note with it to the Postmaster general of Louisiana (in Baton Rouge) explaining my situation, and recommending that they fix it. She also hoped aloud that no one’s head explodes with the incongruity of the form changing my address to my address before inputting “Please send Rob his mail” into the Post Office mainframe.
One can only hope.
2 comments:
Dude, you are so screwed. While the gears of the beauracracy turn and crush you, may I suggest getting a P.O. box and getting all of your bills and magazines sent there? That way, the ex can't submit another change of address form.
Just another example of the ex's total inablity to be a funtioning human being screwing up your life.
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