People love to hate the U.S. Postal Service. Telling stories about people 14 deep in the line to buy stamps is practically an American pastime. I myself recently received a piece of mail that was postmarked in December.
Yesterday, the fervor hit an all time high for me when I was leaving the house and saw a package on my front porch. Normally, this is a gleeful event as you ponder who could have sent you something or the excitement of receiving your Pottery Barn order sets in. But not this time because the box that I saw was a box that I had sent two day mail last week to my new niece, KateIn08.
I picked up the box and looked at it. Postage? Check. Address clearly written? Check. Box intact and taped? Check.
I threw it in the car and added to my do list since I was leaving the house already.
I stopped at the post office and, yes, waited in line. I was ninth. I brought the box up to the man at the service desk and asked him what was wrong.
Postal Guy: Oh, there isn’t any postage on it.
I pointed to the postage stamp on the box now blacked out.
P.G: Wait, you had the zip code incorrect.
Sure enough, I had written last digit of the zip code incorrectly and someone had crossed it out and written in the correct number. My mistake.
P.G: When the package got to that zip code, they fixed it and sent it back. ”
Me: You mean it got sent all the way from Utah to Alabama and then sent back to Utah AFTER it was corrected?
Incredulous doesn’t begin to describe how I started to feel. Postal sums it up nicely.
P.G: Yes, and now you need to pay $7 to have it sent back again.
Me: Fat Chance.
P.G: Fine by me.
