My Mail Frustration

We've been in our house now for 2-and-a-half years. 32 months. I love it here, but one of the few things that drives me nuts about this place, is that the former occupants of this abode have neglected ... still ... to forward their mail to their current address. The six pieces of mail in my hand in the above photo is seriously a daily sample of the crap that arrives for them.

It's not just junk mail, either, folks. Bank and investment statements, their bills, alumni offerings, catalogs, announcements from their kids' schools. It's stunning. I'm surprised they still have functioning utilities. We used to walk the stuff down the street and hand it to them. Now the wife scrawls "PLEASE FORWARD" and "WRONG ADDRESS" in enormous lettering on the envelopes and pieces. This is our passive-aggressive way of letting them know how much mail gets delivered to their old house all the damn time. But it's having no noticeable effect.

I really want to start having a mass burning of their mail. Perhaps in their front yard. I'll invite them out front to roast a few marshmallows and examine how the flavors are richer (light almond notes with a hint of vanilla) because of their LL Bean catalog and their Pepco bill. It's killing me a little bit more, each and every day.