Mail Forward

No one can put you in a fix like your kids. As if the business of modern life is not absurdly complicated to deal with already, my son found a surefire way to make it ridiculously more convoluted. While deciding where to land next, my son and daughter-in-law came to live with me for a couple of months. To their credit, they brought a brilliant baby grandson with them to entertain me, so I will forgive them pretty much anything. When they figured out their plan and the time came for them to relocate and settle into their new home in the promise of northern Oregon, my son conscientiously forwarded his mail with nary a thought to the fact that we share the same last name. Thus began my incredible journey into the center of the hair-pulling idiocy of the national postal service, and my descent down the rabbit hole of voicemail mazes, chat-line-robo-assistants, and incomprehensible outsourced call center help desk personnel (are they even trying to speak English?).

The day after my son went online to fill out the mail forwarding request, I received an email informing me that my mail would henceforth be sent to Oregon. I immediately did what any self-respecting mother would do and started screaming and hopping up and down like a Looney Tune. Then I composed myself and spoke to my son, who sheepishly realizing his error, promised to fix it immediately. He went online and reversed his request at the post office. Easy peasy. No way. It was too late, the button had been pressed, the missiles launched, and they could not be recalled, because the post office is a clueless imbecile of an agency incapable of understanding even the most basic concepts, such as “I do not live in Oregon.”

Not only did the post office send a large portion of my mail to Oregon, they also diligently stickered mail items and returned them to senders; and they sent individualized, earnest, mostly grammatically correct letters to entities with whom I do business to inform them in writing that my address had changed. These businesses believed them without even asking me for confirmation. The post office was as eager to impart what they perceived as a critical and inviolable fact as evangelical proselytizers. Religious fervor is tough to counter. When combined with bureaucracy, it’s steel-plated. Each week my son would put my mail into an envelope and send it to me in Cali, and then I would call, email, and write to all the misguided senders to correct the address. Life insurance. Car insurance. Credit card companies. Utility companies (you would think that if they were delivering utilities to a house in Cali they would question sending the bill to Oregon, but no, that makes too much sense). Health insurance. Doctor bills. Newspaper subscription. No sooner would I straighten things out than the post office would gleefully unravel all my efforts. My daughter-in-law spent over an hour on hold on a call to the post office in an attempt to straighten things out. After finally passing through the holy gate of being on hold, and finally speaking to a supervisor, she was assured that they would finally discontinue sending my mail to Oregon. As if.

My mail continued to be rerouted. Coyote the trickster laughed all night somewhere. I had to call my car insurance company four times to correct my address. It was like a Twilight Zone board game. I would call and fix the address, the post office would inform them I had moved, they would change the address to Oregon again, my mail would go to my son, and I would have to call the car insurance company again and tell them not to send my mail anywhere else unless they hear from me personally. I had to fix the life insurance three times. I had to fix many other accounts once. I’m still trying to fix the propane gas bill. The post office is apparently incapable of comprehending even basic concepts when spelled out. It’s a wonder that any mail actually winds up where it was intended at all.

I wanted my son to figure out how to fix it since he created the problem, but eventually I realized that I needed to take matters into my own hands. I would have to take a PowerPoint slideshow to my local post office to get them to fully understand the situation using visual comprehension assistance. Verbal and written communication had failed. Fortunately, it turned out to be easier than I had imagined. By some fluke of luck, the Postmaster General at my local post office has a reasonable level of intelligence. He was suitably outraged and after spending ten minutes in the back room on his computer he promised me he had fixed the problem and that from that moment onward they would no longer sticker anything, forward anything, or notify any senders of a change of address. He was true to his word. The post office is clearly not paying him enough. I hope they don’t send him to Oregon.

I was finally on the road to recovery, but there’s no accounting for the level of stupidity parading as bureaucratic paperwork out in the wide world. Although the post office kept their part of the bargain and stopped mis-delivering my mail or spreading rumors about my having moved to Oregon, it took some time for the fallout to dissipate. For instance, my credit union became confused about where I lived and so they didn’t send me a replacement credit card when mine expired. (You would think they would contact me to discuss this, but that approach is way to sensible.) I discovered the problem because I use that card for autopay on several accounts, including the thick-as-porridge car insurance people. So I got a notice in the mail from the car insurance (in Cali not Oregon, thank goodness) notifying me that my insurance would be cancelled if I didn’t provide them with a new expiration date for the credit card because it was about to expire. I couldn’t give them the new date because I didn’t have the new card. I had to go into my local credit union branch, verify my address, and have them issue my new credit card, which they printed up while I waited, which leads me to wonder what else they may be printing up in the back room.

Just when I thought it was safe, I went to the doctor, and the secretary asked me if I was on vacation since I lived in Oregon. I corrected my address and asked if it was OK to see the doctor or if I needed to make an appointment with a doctor in Oregon. At least I still had coverage. Several months before, my health insurance provider sent a notification that my premium was going up $12 a month, but it went astray in the mail debacle and I never got it so I failed to pay the higher premium. I discovered this when I received a notice at my correct address informing me that my health insurance was cancelled for nonpayment. They really wanted that extra $48 bad. We sorted that out. Don’t shortchange your health insurance provider. They lack adequate coping mechanisms and it’s not pretty when they throw a tantrum over a $12-a-month premium hike.

As of this writing, almost all of my mail is once again coming to my correct address. The New York Times, which has a reputation for intelligence to defend, can’t seem to work things out and even though they deliver the newspaper to my address here in Cali on Sundays and even though I am on autopay, they continue to mail a redundant paper bill to Oregon every month (go figure). Their website chat line is the most useless chat line I have ever encountered. I might as well be ordering burritos for all the relevant help it provides. And the burritos would be delivered to Oregon for sure. I have also tried on numerous occasions to get my propane gas company to process the notion that they should send my bills to the same address at which they deliver the propane gas. I have called, written, sent singing telegrams, emailed, flown a blimp, and hired a sky-writer to inform them that I live here in Cali where they bring me the gas. The propane people are impressively incapable of recognizing a fact if it sat on the hood of their car and knitted a sweater. I should not be surprised about this since my entire country has basically bailed on recognizing the differences between facts, truths, lies, fabrications, propaganda, manipulative language, bona fide news sources, memes, science, wishes, cover-ups, carburetors, scrambled eggs, and correct addresses.

But I completely forgive my son for creating this mess because, after all is said and done, he brought my baby grandson to live with me for two glorious months during a special time in that precious little boy’s first year. The time I spent with my baby boy was beyond value, as is every minute I spend with him whenever I see him. So it’s all good. I’m a lucky Safta (Hebrew for “grandma”) wherever I live. Now where is the New York Times with my burritos?