Going Postal

I am feuding with my mail carrier.

And just so we're clear, I intend to win.

It all began when I received a postcard notifying someone of my new address. Yes, you read that right. It was a notification that I had moved, meant, as it happened, for Edinboro University of Pennsylvania, but delivered to me because my address was on the card. No matter that it said "To Postmaster of Edinboro." It was strange, but hey, everyone makes mistakes. I dropped it back in the mailbox.

A few days later, it was redelivered, my scribbled "not at this address" note still prominent on the face of the card. This time, I took advantage of the white space on the back of the card and went to town.

"This card is clearly addressed to the Postmaster of Edinboro," I wrote. "The postmaster of Edinboro does not live in Romeoville. Please redirect to the Postmaster of Edinboro."

The card was not in my mailbox the next day, but there was a note from my mail carrier, admonishing me for writing on the mail and explaining that she had a substitute who hadn't quite learned the ropes yet. Fair enough, but if the substitute doesn't understand what "to" means, she's got a tough road ahead.

There's also the matter of the rubber bands. My mail carrier rubber bands every envelope and postcard we receive. Since April, I have collected enough rubber bands for a rubber band ball the size of a golf ball. (I intend it to be her Christmas tip.)

Of course, it doesn't help that since I told my friend Marla about the rubber band thing, she sends me mail addressed to "Erika Grotto, Rubber Band Lover" and writes postcards that say "I hope no one puts a rubber band on this. That would be dumb." That last piece came face up, wrapped in a rubber band with my water bill.

I'm trying to be nice. Sometimes this lady brings me checks; I don't want to piss her off. On the other hand, though, I really sort of hate her. Not that I've ever met her -- in fact, I only know she's a woman because my mother-in-law chased her down the first day we moved in to ask her when she would start bringing mail for us and to ask where the nearest Catholic church was.

I'll leave it to my readers to make of that what they will.

In any case, the misdelivery is happening again. Last week, we received in our mailbox the latest issue of American Baby, which was clearly not for us. In fact, it was for a Rob Martin. There was a sticker attached that said if the addressee didn't live at this address, to return the piece to the mailbox without writing on it. So we did. And today, we got it back.

Side note: I refuse to believe this is a sign of any kind. And poor Rob Martin is out there somewhere, helpless, wondering what new play groups are hot and where he can get affordable crib bedding.

Not wanting to get in trouble again, I did not write on the re-misdelivered mail, but I did leave a very polite note in the mailbox with the magazine. I'm hoping this is the end of the misdeliveries, but something tells me that two days from now, that magazine will be back in my mailbox.

Probably with a rubber band on it.