And calling Fenty's 311 line is about as pleasant and constructive as removing your appendix with a rusty trowel

The problem is, you don't exist.

Honest to god, that's what some asshat at the Post Office told Nick this morning.

See, here's the thing. We bought this house that is eventually going to be spectacular. But it's a tremendous project. And everything about it, at the moment, is difficult.

Because you know we needed one more hard thing in our lives.

It has tons of space. But needs a lot of fixing. And construction.

Which will happen in increments, as we amass enough cash.

But I digress. The mail is the issue at hand.

See, it used to be part of a guest house. And so it hasn't been an address that gets mail.

We were told when we called prior to moving that as soon as we start having mail directed there, it would kick in at the Post Office, and it would start being a valid mailing address.

Alas, no.

And so, when Nick called this morning, here's what the dillweed Postmonkey said.

"Your house doesn't exist."

"What?"

"The problem is, the address doesn't exist."

"It most certainly does. I'm standing in it right now."

"The United States Post Office doesn't recognize it as an address. And if you don't exist with us, you don't exist."

To which Nick replied. "Let's just stop with this ridiculous line of conversation, because you know as well as I do that my house exists."

This made the man mad.

Nick then had to call DC government.

You call 311 and get this positive recording about Mayor Fenty and services. Their website says the following: “24 hours a day, 365 days a year, District government is accessible to every resident by dialing just three digits.”

Accessible? Sure. Helpful? Not necessarily.

Yesterday I called about trash and they directed me to a 202 number for a trash office,

The woman I then called said that the 311 people just didn't know what kind of trash schedule I was on. I had to call them back and tell them we have removal twice a week, and that I need a green recycling bin and a blue trash cart.

I asked if she was sure they wouldn't just send me back to her, and she said no, but they were the ones who have to set it up.

She said to tell them specifically. Green. Blue. And to insist. They have to do this.

Which I did. But honestly. We'll see next trash day.

If you've ever dealt with DC services, you know that those phone calls are like inviting rats to bite off pieces of your soul.

Anyway.

Nick called DC government and explained the no-mail-no-existing-address problem. And the surly woman - who I imagine he interrupted mid-manicure or coffee and danish break - asked what specifically his issues are and with which exact department.

As in, he needs to break down the steps for her in order to have her respond to them.

He didn't know which department or how to break down the issues.

"Then I can't help you."

"Look, YOU'RE the government. I need YOU to tell me which departments and what to ask for. I just need to get my mail."

I've been really annoyed about this, but now I'm wondering. If we don't exist, can we get out of property tax?