The LA Mailing System

I will call this story "And Then There were Two"

Now that I live in Hollywood I've surrendered to the fact that mail delivery will never be the same again. Gone are the days when I can walk down my driveway in my nightgown and bare feet and converse with the neighbors as I open a standard mailbox (you know - the ones that actually go into the ground). No longer will I experience a metal box filled with the sweet site of promptly delivered mail wrapped neatly in a rubber band. No, these days are gone.

My postal experience has been replaced with a treacherous process that starts with getting dressed, putting on shoes, and perhaps even makeup. Now I know I'm not one to be concerned about hair and makeup just to go down to the mailbox, but who knows who you'll have to deal with (this will come into play later). And so the long walk through the apartment and down to the mailboxes begins. The trip gives me time to search through the endless keys on my key chain (one for the main door, one for the side door, one for the front door,.....) to find the my mail box key. After struggling for a few minutes to wedge the key into the system of tiny silver boxes, I pry the door open to reveal a plethora of junk mail mixed with the occasional bill, and if I'm lucky, a letter.

Getting packages is an entirely different issue. First of all, packages are only delivered during the week between the hours of 10am and 4pm during which time most normal people are, guess what, NOT HOME!!!! So the extremely difficult responsibility of signing for packages is left up to the woman in the front office. Her door bares the sign that reads "Office hours - Monday- Friday, 9am-5pm". Unfortunately, she forgot to read her own sign because she is never manning her post thus leaving my postman to fend for himself. This poses a huge problem as there is a giant locked door blocking his path to my mailbox and my apartment. If I'm lucky, he'll leave a notice telling me where to retrieve the package which, of course, will involve getting in the car (good thing I brought my keys), traveling to the post office (good thing I got dressed), and standing amongst the likes of Denis Quaid (good thing I wore the makeup) to hopefully retrieve my package. Many times this doesn't work, and no one seems to know (or care) where my package is.

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A few months ago I was invited to go skiing at Whistler with Seton's family over Christmas Vacation. I was very excited about the trip and began taking inventory of my ski equipment. My skis were in Charlotte, so I had Rich and Catherine Campe climb into the attic at our house and get my skis. My friend Cameron then picked them up and met me in S.C when I was there for a wedding to deliver them to me. I purchased new boots as the old ones were old and didn't fit, and my mother kindly ordered new ski pants for me from one of her favorite websites (website name withheld do to the negative comments to follow). Something, details of which I am uncertain of, occurred with the ordering of the ski pants, and so began the process of trying to locate the delivery. After trips to the post office and a few phone calls, my mother had to reorder the pants and report the missing pants. This time she used my work address and the pants arrived just fine via a kind, chubby delivery man who came right to the door.

It recently dawned on me that because Whistler is in Vancouver, I would need to get a new passport. My mother paid $13.67 to have the tiny document expressed mailed to my apartment overnight. However, when I arrived at my apartment one hour after the scheduled delivery time, there was no package to be found. The small envelope that should have been left in my mailbox was not in the front office, and Miss "I'm never here when I say I am" insisted that nothing had been dropped off and no delivery men had stopped by.

The next few days were tarnished with arguments between me and my mother, long hours tracking the package, and endless annoying phone calls to post offices and supervisors. I finally found that the package was at my post office and I would have to take a lunch break to go retrieve it.

Good thing I picked the day when the post office was getting robbed! There I am, standing in line as the cops drag off the genius who decided that the post office with giant bullet proof glass would be the ideal place to rob. All the while I'm thinking to myself, "How ironic would that be? I go to the post office to get my BIRTH CERTIFICATE and I DIE in a shooting."

Finally, I make my way to the front desk and struggle to speak to the man behind the bullet proof glass. He has a lisp and a distinctive twitch which, now that I think about it, he probably got from the scare of the hold-up. He retreats to the back room in search of my package and when he returns he's carrying a package that appears way too big for a mere birth certificate.

"Disss ....Diiiisss - D - D Diss is yours, no?" he asks.

"Well, yes I suppose so," I say, "but it's supposed to be a birth certificate and that package looks a little big."

"Noo - n - noo - diss is not, not a birth certificate."

"Well, I called yesterday, and they said it was here. They used a tracking number."

"I w - w - will - g g gg ggg - go check again," he promises.

He quickly returns proudly carrying the birth certificate and I leave the post office/crime scene with two packages. When I get in the car, I'm curious to open the larger package, and when I do, balled up inside is a great pair of black ski pants!

So I guess the moral of the story is, "When its a matter of Birth or Death, don't rely on the postal service. Otherwise, just give it time and you may receive what's coming to you - two fold."

~Heather