This post is part of the Grassroots Blogger Book Marketing Campaign 2008, and is meant to generate donations for The Rape Abuse and Incest National Network (RAINN).

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The Captain and I had been together nearly three years when he invited me to move in with him. I had mixed feelings on cohabitation at the time. If my younger sister hadn’t long since decided to shack up with her boyfriend, I might have refused for fear of offending my parents. As I mentioned before, growing up my mother cautioned us that premarital sex was the surest way to secure an afterlife of eternal damnation. Surprisingly, she was quite excited for me when I revealed my plans to make the Captain’s home mine as well. I am fairly certain that this abrupt change in principles is due to the fact that she’d prefer a grandchild over my salvation.

With Mom on my side (and apparently praying for me to get knocked up), I took up residence in my new home Catholic-guilt free. Too easy. As far as I was concerned, everything worked out perfectly.

That is when I stopped receiving mail.

I had filed my change of address forms with the USPS (and my bank, credit cards, the DMV, etc.) about a week and a half before my actual move to prevent any serious delays with my mail. For the first couple weeks I didn’t pay much attention to the sudden cessation of flyers and loan offers. But after a month, I suspected there was an issue and called the local post office.

The man who answered the phone was very friendly until I informed him, “I’m not receiving my mail.”

“Then you’re not getting any.”

“No, I’m quite sure I should have gotten mail by now. I think there’s a problem.”

“Look, if you’re not getting mail it’s because no one is sending you mail. We don’t hoard your mail. What we have, we deliver!”

“I understand that, but I haven’t even been receiving my weekly pay stubs. So you see, I know I should be getting mail, but it’s not arriving here.”

At this point the man realized that I most likely had a valid argument and stopped to think instead of yelling at me. He asked where I lived, had some revelation about “rural routes,” and directed me to call the post office the next town over.

Again, I called the post office and explained my situation. They put my mail carrier on the line.

“Yes, Miss Willets. I have all your mail.”

“Excellent! When are you going to deliver it?”

“When you move in.”

“Uh . . . but I have. I’ve been living here for about a month.”

“You must be mistaken. My records show that the Captain is still living at that house.”

“Yes.”

“Well, I can’t deliver your mail until he moves out.”

“Um . . . but . . . yeah, you see, he’s not moving out.”

“Well then how would THAT work?” she snapped.

Long pause.

“. . . Ohhhhhhhhhh.”

Very long awkward pause.

She then explained to me that because I live on a rural route I would have to fill out a special card requesting service. I also had to make sure to list my name AND the Captain’s name as mail recipients because since we didn’t share a last name, I wouldn’t be able to get my mail otherwise.

A simple “Welcome to the neighborhood” might have been nice.

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