Following up on last week’s post about my mishaps as Santa Claus, I drove to FedEx today fully prepared to have a Come-to-Jesus meeting, though whether they or I needed it more, I’m still unsure.
I had already contacted the online entity who sold me the posters and they are sweetly refunding my shipping charges. I begged them to make FedEx find and deliver my package but like most things, once shipped, my items were at the mercy of the FedEx seas. I was finally able this morning to determine that my package was dropped off at the main FedEx office on Christmas Eve where it continued to wait for me to pick it up. The really fun part is that I was just supposed to know this inherently because FedEx, in all their wisdom and Christmas rush, made no further effort to contact me. I spewed forth with unholy condemnations in the car as Dom pointed out that we were about to drive past a FedEx truck on the street near our neighborhood.
“Pull closer to him so I can flip him off!!” I demanded. He didn’t. So I didn’t. It’s for the best.
I toyed with the idea of calling FedEx and insisting that they deliver my package today, but I decided knowing where my package sat was preferable to having it roam the streets again. So I drove myself to the shipping facility…fists taped, gloves on.
Once inside, I paused at the counter only to remind myself that the lady behind the counter is not the idiotic driver who failed to deliver Aaron’s gift on Christmas Eve. She’s just working the FedEx counter, doing her job just like I would be doing mine if my office were open today. She does not personally deserve my wrath. Once she located my package she asked, “Do you have a new address?” And so I launched into the whole stupid story – much like I did with you – and reiterated that the address on the package is indeed current and correct.
“I am so, so sorry for this mistake,” she offered. Call me easy, but that was good enough for me. Like I said, none of this crap was her fault. I told her I would have been most happy with another phone call to alert me to the fact that my package would be available for pickup. She agreed and apologized again. We wished each other a good day and I hauled my four-foot long cylinder of a poster package to the car.
All in all, this goofy incident was little more than a hassle with a happy ending. Aaron got his posters, I maintained my dignity, and the FedEx lady hopefully had an uneventful day at work. As I stripped the cardboard cylinder of its labels containing my address I saw the driver’s reason for not delivering it, penned in the “other” category at the bottom of the adhesive label:
That’s right, folks. Apparently my trailer was gone when he tried to deliver to it. Like we place Internet orders all the time and then move the house before delivery. I am thoroughly convinced that the dude wasn’t even on my street. ‘Cause my trailer’s kinda hard to miss: