Fail Whale for Snail Mail

The Fail Whale is the ubiquitous screen that pops up when Twitter is over capacity. It's a cute way of saying the system failed. Lately, I feel like posting a Fail Whale on my front door because my new mail carrier? FAIL!

We've had a few memorable mail carriers during the decade we've lived in our house. Nice guys, like the recent family man, a father of high-school aged boys with whom I'd exchange greetings parenting updates on the rare days I met him at our door. We live in an old house with a pass-through mail slot that allows for delivery right into my living room. But I'll open my front door if I see the postman coming.

A month ago we received a notice that our route was reconfigured for efficiency's sake. We were warned to expect changes in delivery time and personnel.

And change it has. Our mail used to arrive between 11:00 and about 2:00. Now it arrives between 4:00 and 5:30 in the afternoon. I liked the mid-day delivery. As a WAHM, I love receiving a check and running it right to the bank. Though who am I kidding? My delivery is more likely to contain bills or junk mail than checks.

What really chaps my hide about this new route is the mail carrier. Even when I greeted her at the door just a week before Christmas, she didn't return my words or look me in the eyes. The week before Christmas! She certainly wasn't angling for any kind of tip. Nor did she receive one.

No, this woman is not interested in people other than the ones she's constantly talking to on her cell phone. I first glimpsed her around the neighborhood talking to herself, only to realize she was using a hands-free headset. Since ignoring me that first time at my door, we've had other encounters in which I thought she was saying hi to me only to realize she's talking to, well, who is she talking to?

Is she carrying on with friends? Is she running a business? Placing bets? Plotting to overtake the world?

Who knows? But I take issue with her doing any of this while she's on the clock and I'm paying her salary.

When our mail arrived in the early afternoon the other day, I asked if the new carrier if our route had been changed yet again. He told me our lady of perpetual rudeness had slipped on the ice and was on office duty for a few weeks.

I'm sorry she's injured, but I can't help wonder if all that talking on the phone distracted her from stepping carefully over the piles of snow and ice that have been dotting our landscape.

I'm thinking a call to her supervisor is in order. I suppose I could send my local postmaster a letter, but my trust in the US Postal System is beginning to fail.

Original post to Chicago Moms Blog.

Kim also blogs at Hormone-colored Days and gives stuff away at Hormone-colored Reviews.