Mr. Postmaster’s Final Betrayal

madeleine mr. post master


Dear Mr. Postmaster,

I’m not sure where we went wrong, but it’s over between us. I’ve forgiven a lot of things you’ve done over the years because let’s face it — I needed you. But you went too far this time. What have you done to my wedding invitations?

I look past the fact that you deliver mail for everyone with the last name “Perez” to my apartment. Despite what you may think, we’re not all related and we don’t all live in a one-bedroom apartment. I don’t know David Perez who lives down the block, but I’m sure he’d like to get his mail once in a while.

Last year, when you sent my tax return check to East 82nd St. instead of West 82nd St. and it took six months to recover it, I accepted your apology.

I even patiently waited in line at the Planetarium Station — the worst post office in America — for 30 minutes, only to get major attitude from the woman behind the glass who while eating a hotdog, smudged mustard on my mail. But I smiled and moved on. But now it’s two months until my wedding and this really isn’t the time to mess with me.

Even though I was psychotically anal about making sure our invitations were perfect, something has gone terribly wrong and it’s mainly your fault. We checked and double-checked them. They were addressed correctly, stamped correctly, and presumably sealed correctly. But a day after I mailed them out, Mitch and I started to get empty response envelopes in our mailbox. After some detective work, it was painfully clear that the invitations were opening in the mail, and spilling out their contents before they arrived to our friends and family. This is partially thanks to the fantastic envelopes that have defective sealant, a nifty little fact that I unfortunately just learned. But primarily due to your utter disregard for the slogan “handle with care.” Most people received invitations that looked like they’d been mailed from Iraq, and chewed on by a hungry man at the post office. My best friend Nicole received an invitation that was covered in black ink and had a big piece of tape holding it shut. Some invitations were MIA altogether. My friend Alyson, who lives six whole blocks from your post office, got absolutely nothing. Today, I get her invitation back, with a yellow sticker saying that she’s moved. You’d better check your records, cause she’s still living in the very same apartment I sent the invite to, Mr. Mail Guru.

So after spending $2,000 on what we were told were top-of-the-line invitations, it’s pretty obvious that we would have gotten better quality at Walmart. More to the point, it’s obvious that you, Mr. Postmaster, did not take very good care of them.

I wish you the best, Mr. Postmaster, and I hope you find what you’re looking for, but we are over. I never want to hear from you again.


Mr. Postmaster’s Final Betrayal