FedUp...

I’m sitting on my couch.

My coffee pot is sputtering away heating up water for my second cup of tea. I haven’t been able to invest in a water filter bottle yet, so I heat up my water like MacGyver. It’s a thing…don’t worry about it. The incense cone I lit a while ago has burned a quarter of the way through. Much less mess, incense cones. Sticks have a tendency to ash up everything. Unless, of course, you have an enclosed incense box. Note to self: add that to my list of necessary investables.

Due to a desire for some peace a quiet while I sip boiled caffeine leaves and overwhelm my olfactory senses with Nag Champa, the two sliding doors in our apartment have been cracked open. A steady air flow keeps my fire alarms from yelling at me. Literally…after the insufferable beeping, they speak in unison. “Warning! There is a fire!” It’s really quite stressful. So to avoid all of that noise and stress, I set up some cross ventilation. Thank you, physics.

It seems, however, that the asshole blaring his music so loud that it seems impossible his car should hold together, so loud that my bones shake while he sits at the intersection outside, so loud that a wake of car alarms announce his departure…that asshole has had different plans for me. Silence appears to be out of the question. Oh look! The tea water is ready.

Lipton black. I like to keep it classy in this house. The cone is half burned down. I’m dawdling.

To be honest, I’m not sure what else to do besides dawdle at this point. Here I am, smelling sweet smells, sipping bitter sweet teas, listening to yet another awfully ear smashing rap serenade. Finished one book and started another. I would build my new bed, but…

Oh wait. That’s what all this dawdling is about in the first place, isn’t it? FedEx and their games have me waiting for the third day in a row now. Please allow me to vent a bit.

Wednesday May 1^st, 2013:

This is a day I have been waiting for since I moved into my apartment last October. For months, I slept on the floor on and air mattress. After adequate savings, I moved up to a real larger than life (that’s an extra long full size) mattress. Until this very day, my fancy schmancy mattress has remained on the floor. It’s worked out alright, but I was finally able to save up enough to move forward with my awesome room layout plans. A few weeks prior, I ordered my custom loft bed to be cut to my specifications and paid extra money to have it delivered on this day. May 1, 2013. A Wednesday when I knew I would have no plans (and made sure to keep myself plan free) and I would not be scheduled for work. My excitement could hardly be contained! So excited was I that I completely naturally and without any electronic aid whatsoever sprung awake at 8 in the morning.

That is a lie. I needed three alarms, and I really woke up at 8:15, but whatever. I was given a 12 hour delivery window starting at 8am, so I made the excitement enough to force myself up.

My apartment was made sparkly clean. The dishes were done and put away. I cleared out space in my room for epic construction times. A brief shower was had with all doors open in case a doorbell was to ring. Rice and fish for lunchinner. I popped in Lord of the Rings extended edition, and time just ticked away. All said and done, not a terrible way to spend my day off.

Finally, after watching the digital numbers tick, tick, tick on by, the doorbell rang. It was 7:30pm. Eleven and a half of the twelve hour time slot gone, but still technically within when they said they would arrive. Bubbling over with actual excitement now, I ran down stairs and greeted the delivery man.

“You’re Brogan?”

“That’s me,” I replied with a big cheesy smile. I can’t explain how excited I am to put my bed together, and he wouldn’t give a shit anyway so I don’t.

“Great! … … … So it says there are four boxes.”

“Yeah, that’s what they told me.”

“Well I’ll check one more time in the back, but I’ve only got three.”

Mother fucker.

He proceeded to show me his little digital pad and how only three of the package tag numbers had checkmarks. That means they were scanned onto the truck. Okay…not his fault. He said that he would come by the next day. I explained to him that nobody would be in during the day on Thursday, but if he could manage to come around the same time, between 6pm and 8pm, I would be home. A verbal agreement was made. A pact. A promise. A solemn vow between delivery man and recipient. I thought that would be enough.

Nope!

Thursday May 2^nd, 2013

It’s 5:50pm, and I’m hustling fast from the subway stop. I don’t want to be late and miss this guy with my last box. Winter is long since over, I’m carrying a blow up mattress and sheets I had lent a friend and just retrieved on top of my usual bag, and the sunshine is making me sweat like a beast. I manage to walk in the door at 5:59 all flustered and a mess.

There on our island table…in the center of our island table…apart from anything else on our island table…sat something that looked oddly like a notice of attempted delivery. A brief conversation with my roommate who had brought it up when she got home and the use of my eyeballs confirmed that this is exactly what it fucking was. A notice letting me know that they had decided instead to come by at 2:30 in the afternoon when I made it explicitly clear that nobody would be home.

Mother fucker!

A phone call with a perfectly polite broken English speaking woman left me in no better a mood. Apparently I could not schedule a time of delivery for the following day. The only option available to me was to request a time. So, asking her to note that the original issue was their fault and that this would be my third day rearranging my commitments for one box, I requested they arrive before 11am. That way, you know, I could go in to work all smiles because I’ve finally received the missing ¼ of my bed.

NOPE!

Friday May 3^rd, 2013

I’m sitting on my couch. The incense cone burned down a while ago. I’ve started the water for a third cup of tea. My manager (who I talked to yesterday about all this nonsense) was able to cover me, so thankfully I won’t be losing my job today. I made a steak dinner for lunch. My roommate came out from her room, had her pre-work meal and youtube watching times, and went on her way. I’m here still dawdling for the third day in a row now, and I’m ready to bite somebody.

Thank goodness it’s Friday. Friday night is Zombiefest night. I hope the audience is ready, because they are about to become some therapy.

So what am I really trying to say with all of this?

Thank you to the original delivery man for getting here on the day I requested with the boxes that they gave you. Not your fault.

Thank you to the lady on the phone. I know you couldn’t do too terribly much from wherever your desk was, and I appreciate the forwarding of my request.

Thank you to my manager and store owner for being such awesome ladies and covering me today.

I don’t often like to blame people, and I’m not placing blame on the wrong people here. But god damn, I held up my end of the bargain. Paid my money for a specific date of delivery. Waited eleven and a half hours. Received ¾ of a bed and have now rearranged my plans for two days. It’s somebody’s fault, damn it, and it is probably best that I don’t know who.

Maybe they’ll come to Zombiefest tonight. That would make it all better. That and my bed.

Oh look! The tea water’s done. Back to dawdling once more. Thanks for listening.