It gets worse every
day. It's bad enough that I have to dial eleven digits to phone
my neighbor across the hall, but at least I can still get through
to her personally. Not so any more with my local post office,
three miles away.
It was 4:30 PM. I had
a package to mail. I didn't know if my post office closed at 4:30
or 5:00. I dialed its number and was referred to an 800 number
that, in turn, connected me to someone in Denver, Colorado—2,000
miles from my home. Correction: the 800 number actually did not
connect me to "someone" in Denver—not until I listened to
eleven (there's that number again) menu options.
You know the drill:
Starting with the usual "for English press one, for Spanish press
two" and proceeding through six other choices, depending on whether
I wanted information on mailing a letter or package (Press 1)
, rates (2), zip codes (3), reporting an address change or placing
mail on vacation hold (4), delivery of mail to my business or
residence (5), or other postal information (6).
That last one sounded
encouraging. I pressed 6 and was rewarded with still more choices:
"If you are calling about retail products or services, press 1;
if you are calling about postal services provided by your delivery
unit, press 2; if you wish to speak to a customer service representative,
press 3…."
I did—press 3,
that is—and finally heard a live, human voice! I told her
I simply wanted to know what time my post office closed. She was
very pleasant. She said she'd be happy to help. She asked for
my zip code and put me on hold. I held until my question became
moot. It was too late to go to the post office by now, even if
it closed at 5:00.
A few months ago, I
went away on a vacation. I had requested my post office to hold
my mail. After a couple of days, my neighbor called me to let
me know my mail was still being delivered. I phoned my post office
and spoke to the Postmaster who apologized and assured me he would
remind my delivery person to hold my mail. Problem solved. If
the same thing happens the next time I go away, I doubt if that
nice woman in Denver could help…she probably wouldn't be able
to get through to my local post office either.
And now postage is
going up—again…all of which supports my long-held theory
that postal rates increase in direct proportion to the decrease
in service.
If the Post Office
Department is adamant about maintaining this new disservice, I
suggest they add one more option to the menu:
"If this system is
driving you crazy and you'd like a referral to a psychiatrist,
press eleventeen."
Rose Mula was an executive
assistant, a public relations specialist, and an operations manager
for a New England dinner theater chain before discovering a passion
for writing. She has written business and trade articles to earn
a living, and humor for the fun of it. Her work has appeared in
Yankee, Modern Maturity, The Christian Science Monitor, The Reader's
Digest, The Philadelphia Inquirer, The Miami Herald, and more
than four dozen other magazines and newspapers. She can be contacted
through email.
