Going postal

Okay, I found something to miss about Stamford…the mailman. Tom was such a nice guy. Always smiled and waved at me. If the weather was bad and the box was full, he’d bring it the doorstep and we’d chat for a few minutes. He gave me all sorts of juicy gossip about the people we bought the house from.

This afternoon, the doorbell rings. It’s our mailman. He’s not happy. Why? “Your address on your mail is wrong, and you better change it.” He’s angry at me! “What are you talking about?” He answers: “Your mail says 57 on it, not 67 (which is the correct house number) and I’ve been nice and delivered it to you but you better change it or you’re going to miss your bills.” Mind you, English isn’t his first language but that’s not the point. I told him that I do know my address and if someone is consistently putting the wrong address on our mail it’s probably a typo or mistake and we’ll take care of it. I thanked him and he walked off in a huff. Eric went to the box to fetch the mail (angry mail guy could have brought the mail with him when he came to yell at me, but noooo…) All the mail was to the correct address except for *one* letter, from Aetna, that was addressed to house #57 instead of #67. Eric will correct it with the insurance company on Monday.

Does the mailman seriously think that I gave out the wrong address just to p*ss him off? It sure seemed like it.