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I am officially out of my storage unit as of yesterday, and the very last box I loaded into my car brought back some fond memories.
Two years ago, I had a prescription overnighted via USPS from Walgreens. Tracking showed that the package had arrived, but it was nowhere to be seen. I left a very polite note in my mailbox for the postal worker, inquiring as to whether she remembered seeing it. She left a note in return that yes, she had my package, but she wasn’t sure it was for me. I leave another note asking what I can do to prove the package is mine (??). She then leaves another note that says, verbatim, “I’ll get to it when I get to it.” She finally delivers the package a full five days later.
I could have written to her supervisor, but I wanted a more satisfying revenge for her incompetence.
So I went to the post office down the street and mailed myself a box of dictionaries, which the postal worker then had to carry up two flights of stairs to my apartment. Since we had only communicated via notes up to that point, she didn’t put together who I was, and was all friendly to me, making a joke about how heavy the box was and how far she had to climb.
My reply: “It’s a shame they give women these jobs.” Silence.
Every week, I mailed myself that same exact box of dictionaries, with my address clearly listed in both the TO: and FROM: sections. Every week, she had to climb those stairs and bring it to me.
Moral of the story: don’t mess with my package delivery.