Today was to be the day that I got back to work. My disk would arrive from my dad, I would reload MS Office on my computer and productivitiy would commence. Note the use of "would." Now, substitute "didn't."
Well, that's not quite accurate either. The disk did arrive. I'm not sure when it arrived because although I was home all day, and spent most of the day right next to the door, I never heard the stealth postman. Apparently, my postman only knocks once - and then runs like a jackrabbit with its ass on fire. I'm thinking he chose the 15 minutes that I was in the shower to attempt delivery. All I know is that I decided to open my door at 2:30 and a "failed delivery" notice blew inside. Instead of work, I commenced cursing.
Frustrated, I called the 1-800 number on the back of the notice - because I can't call my local post office. The local number is not in the local phone book. Very crafty for a federal bureaucracy. We don't want people calling us, so we just won't publish our number. Instead, we'll force them to use the national 1-800 number and we'll never have to see them. Mwah-ha-ha-ha!
When I finally got through the maze of "Do you want to hear more about our rate change - say yes or no," I spoke to a real person. This real person informed me that although my package was somewhere in my relatively small metro area, there was not a chance in hell that I could get the package today. I said, "So, because I decided to take a 15 minute shower, I have to wait until tomorrow to get the package?" He said, "Yes, ma'am." I think they must pay these people bonuses based on the level of frustration they can generate. Thanks to my shower, this fellow's family is going to Disney for a week.
Nearing the end of my rope, I drove to the post office, hoping against hope that maybe, just maybe, my package would be there - or they'd be able to tell me where it was. I stood in the long line and played counter clerk roulette. Would I get the one competent clerk or would I get the slow as all hell clerk? When it was my turn, I learned my fate. I got the clerk with limited English proficiency. With the growing number of Hispanic residents in my town, I'm all for hiring Spanish-speaking postal clerks. It's a great idea. However, if aforementioned clerk can't speak English, well, that's a problem.
I walked up with my slip of paper and explained my problem. He looked at me, looked at my slip of paper, looked back at me, and looked at the slip of paper for a few more seconds. Finally, he turned and walked to the back of the post office. I heard murmuring and he re-emerged. He explained that I could call the 1-800 number. Exasperated, I said, "I already did that." He stopped, befuddled again. You could almost hear the English to Spanish gears turning in his brain. Although he doesn't understand English words, apparently, he does understand exasperation and frustration. He turned over my slip of paper and wrote another number, a decidedly local number. The secret local number. In a slightly hushed tone, he instructed me to call the number and talk to his supervisor.
I got out my cell phone as I walked away from the counter. The supervisor said that the carrier who delivers the overnight packages hadn't returned and she didn't have his cell phone number. There's one guy that they trust with the most urgent packages and that's the one guy that they can't reach. Yet another well-thought-out policy at the federal bureaucracy. She took my name and number and said she'd try to catch the carrier when he returned later in the day.
About an hour later, my phone rang. The clouds parted and the angels sang. She had my package. I had 45 minutes to return to the post office. I ran out the door and back to the post office where I finally retrieved my package. Hallelujah!
I'm happy to report that I have successfully installed MS Office, I have visited a few of my files to make sure they're still with me, and now, I'm going to order some Chinese food for dinner. Tomorrow, I will return to work!
No comments:
Post a Comment