Box Full Of Letters


I hate my post office.

For the past 2 1/2 years, we’ve been continiously getting mail for former tenants. And like the nice person I am, I save it and when I have a little stack of it, I run it over to there and explain to whoever’s behind the counter that these people don’t live there any longer, haven’t lived there in a long time and could they please stop doing this to me since it’s starting to get really old and all of that nonsense. I hope it stuck this time.

Signed, sealed, not delivered...

Signed, sealed, not delivered…

Last week a free skein of yarn got sent back to a very nice indy fiber spinner and dyer because of an “insufficient address”. The address was fine, of course, but guess who sent it back? My post office, of course. It was alpaca sock, no less, which is almost like crack to sock knitters.

Okay, it’s probably better than crack.

And today I went over to mail some holiday cards. Some of them have extra weight, so I asked the counter person to weigh one and tell me how much postage they’d need and to give me the appropriate stamps.

I go over to the work table and start putting stamps on the cards and realize she sold me wedding stamps. Wedding stamps, people.

So, if you get something in the mail from me, it’s not an invitiation to my nuptials.

I hate my post office.


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