Isn’t it fun to go all retro and communicate with little notes sometimes, instead of the usual call, text, or email options we use all too often? It’s like passing secret notes back in grade school to discuss the cute boy sitting two seats in front of you. Or I imagine it would be, since I was homeschooled and never got to try out the whole note passing shindig. I wonder what other important rites of passage I might have missed out on. No wonder I turned out to be such a strange adult. It’s not my fault at all.
At any rate, I’ve been having a wonderful exchange of notes with my local UPS delivery person over the past several weeks (although I admit, I might have ruined the mystique with a couple of phone calls; it couldn’t be helped). This is because UPS doesn’t like to leave any package (no matter how insignificant) outside of my apartment building without a signature, so they leave little sticky notes with instructions for us to sign them and stick them back on the door.
I’ve previously discussed (read: whined endlessly about) my broken computer and how long it’s taken to fix. I don’t know why I’m still whining, since I’ve been perfectly fine ever since Lawrence lent me his old laptop to use. I’m whining on principle. It’s been over a month.
I got a little sticky note over the weekend, and I’m hoping own laptop will be waiting for me when I get home tonight. Though my hopes aren’t high, given the previous record of communication between me and the UPS people. This may just be the beginning of another week-and-a-half long note exchange. What excitement I have in my life! Secret correspondence with a nameless, faceless admirer. Okay, I made up that admirer part, but they COULD be an admirer of mine. I have no evidence to the contrary.
So, when I first moved in to my apartment (and by ‘first moved in,’ I’m taking about the first six months, AT LEAST), I forgot my own address on a regular basis. Now I don’t forget the entire address anymore, I just tend to leave off crucial bits and pieces. Namely: my apartment number. This is a bad bit to leave off because people don’t necessarily notice that you’ve forgotten anything (as opposed to a missing zip code or street name) and won’t remind you that you’ve gotten it wrong. Apparently, I had this exact problem when I told the computer warranty people my home address.
They were supposed to send me a box in which I was supposed to send them my computer to fix. I know, right? They didn’t think much of my suggestion that I just use my OWN box to send it. Anyway, I was supposed to get said box in 3-5 business days. 10 days later, I gave them a disgruntled telephone call:
Me (furiously): “Where’s my box?”
Nice man on the other end: “You forgot to put your apt. number in your shipping address. UPS can’t deliver your box without it.”
Me (much less furiously): “Oh. I, uh—hmmm. How’d that happen?”
Nice man on the other end: “Would you like me to transfer you to UPS, so you can tell them your apartment number?”
Me: “Yes, please.”
On day two, I got a little note to sign, which I did.
On day three, I get a text from Roomie around three in the afternoon: “Hey, you forgot to sign that slip for UPS. They left you another one saying it was their second attempt.” I couldn’t even get offended that my dearest friend in the world thought it likely that I would have brought the slip in showed it to her, failed to sign it, and then gone back out to stick it on the door. This is totally something I would do, or have previously done. BUT NOT THIS TIME. This time I was super positive I had signed it.
What the heck was going on? I know some secret admirer out there is obsessed with collecting my signature. Which is totally creepy if you think about it too much. But I’ll take it.
I hate talking on the phone. I really do. One time, I sat in front of the phone for 45 minutes trying to work up the courage to call someone. It wasn’t someone important or anything; I think I was scheduling a doctor’s appointment. It’s that bad. Is that some kind of thing? I feel like it should be, if it’s not: phoneophobia. I’m so scientific. But I called UPS AGAIN to see what was going on. The verdict: it will be delivered tomorrow. If it is not, call back.
What a waste of a phone call. I could have used all that stress up on something normal instead.
Next day. No computer. Same note still on the door.
Angry phone call number three was in order. I was feeling so furious about the whole situation that I was prepared to give whoever was on the other line a good haranguing. But the lady I talked to was so nice that I just couldn’t do it. I could not be mean. I was super polite and understanding instead. WTF!? It’s too bad that I was on a cell phone, because, afterward, I was wishing I could have made up for accidentally being so nice during my angry phone call by slamming the phone down in the receiver. That would have been satisfying. Maybe.
I had to make do with hitting the hang-up button as angrily as I could. VERY anticlimactic. It wasn’t even a real button, just a fake button on the touch screen. They should think of these things when designing cell phones. The passive aggressive population of the world needs a way to take out some rage at the end of a frustrating phone conversation. Somebody get on this.
Eventually I did get the box. And I’m sure that I will eventually get my computer back. I think I might have to break it off with my secret admirer though. It’s getting a little weird. Maybe I’ll just let L try to set me up with a real person instead; she’s totally dying to. It’s adorable. She has yet to witness the destruction that I bring to relationships. Okay, I can sense a major tangent coming on here. It’s late. I’m going to bed.