Would you like to know one of the most helpless feelings in the world?
Standing at the post office for 45 minutes while the clerks search for your priority overnighted engagement ring.
This is not a hypothetical statement. Also, if somebody has a bride voodoo doll with my face on it, can you lay off just a little? You’ve successfully gotten me to my breaking point.
Two Friday ago (actually, the same day I found out about the c-word)((cue tiny violin, please)) I mailed my engagement ring to our jeweler back in Ohio so it could be cleaned & fitted to the band they made for it. Nerve-racking, for sure. I insured that dang thing for practically a million dollars and had it next day’d.
It should be noted, before I go off on this bitch-tyrant monster spiel, that B’s family has used this jeweler – and ONLY this jeweler – for everything since the end of time. They are a family-run business and treat their customers as if their family as well.
Except I’m not technically part of the family yet, I guess.
I’ve had a few bouts of miscommunication with them – and by that I mean they want to talk to B & his mom about everything, and never me. You have a relationship, I get that. But guess what?
I’M A CRAZY, CONTROLLING, TYPE-A, OBSESSIVE LUNATIC BITCH.
So that means anything related to MY jewelry & MY wedding should be run through ME. Actually everything should just run through me from here on out – I already made B’s weekend plans and called his dentist to make sure he’s only supposed to be flossing twice a week like he claims.
(true, apparently. he has killer gums.)
Anyways, the other night I’m laying in bed, half asleep, trying to decide how many times I’m going to hit the snooze before actually rolling out of bed for work, when B comes in :
B : “Hey, (jeweler) wants to know where to send your ring, it’s finished”
S : (eyes closed, bitch-mode still awake) “WELL MAYBE THEY SHOULD HAVE ASKED ME WHERE I WANTED IT SENT TO”
B : (unsure of how to approach the almost-slumbering beast) “Umm, so, where sh…”
S : “JUST SEND IT TO MY OFFICE SO IT CAN BE SIGNED FOR”
S : …zzzzzzzz
Dutiful husband-to-be that he is, he pulled my work address out of his phone and sent it over.
13497 my work building
Irvine, CA 92612
As blessed as B is to spend 40 hours a week helping people and having a fulfilling & rewarding job (physical therapy), he’s short on a bit of corporate knowledge.
(be nice and don’t mention this might be common, everyday knowledge and not requisite of an MBA, k?)
When you send something to a person at their place of business, especially a building that hosts more than one company, you need a suite number and/or the company name. Because Joe Postman isn’t going to find MY NAME on the building directory, believe it or not.
So yesterday, while trying to deliver the super-important, no-suite-or-company-name-listed envelope to me, Joe Postman called the number on the slip to find out where the F he should bring it.
Except for some reason (remaining unknown) that was B’s phone #, not mine. Another downfall of not working in corporate America : not having 24/7 access to your personal phone, btw.
After a full day of teaching paralysis patients how to walk again, B finally checks his voicemail.
“Weird, some mailman left me a message saying he tried to deliver something to you that required a signature but didn’t have a suite number…?
… oh shit.”
“No big deal,” I said. “I’ll see him tomorrow and just go pick it up, don’t worry.” (That’s calm & reasonable Sarah’s appearance for the month.)
This morning I ran down as soon as I saw the mail truck, and asked Joe Postman about it.
“Yeah, I called you! Well it’s at the blah blah office, so you can just go pick it up. Easy-peasy, brah.”
Brah. Anyways, I took my easy-peasy to the post office after work and told them my story. They took my name & the address, and headed to the back.
Every 5 minutes or so they’d come back out to ask another stupid question. Sometimes with some new employee in tow. Never holding a priority overnight envelope.
Each stop pushing me closer and closer to cardiac arrest.
MORE THAN 45 MINUTES LATER, I left with the branch manager’s phone number and instructions to call if the package didn’t redeliver to the sender by Monday.
I held my composure until I got to my car, where the flood gates opened. I let down all the walls – the stress of wedding planning, the fear of that stupid c-word, the pressure of finding a new place to live – and sobbed like an f’ing crazy person.
(yes, I filtered the shit out of this picture. you don’t need to see the patheticness of the orginal)
Sure, I’m relieved to know my precious custom-made ring is likely en-route back to it’s maker and not lost or hidden in Joe Postman’s dashboard. I’ll have it by the wedding. Somehow. Things will be fine. They’ll work out.
But an easy way to avoid any of this stress, me yelling at B, collapsing into a sobbing mess ball, and passing out for two hours? (crying is exhausting, I guess)
TALK TO ME. Regardless of how frazzled/stressed/over-worked I seem, or whether I’m not “officially” part of the family yet – ask the questions that you need MY answer to, to me. Haven’t you ever played that telephone game? Lost in translation isn’t just a movie, you know.
And PT’s just can’t be blamed for thinking Joe Postman will knock on every office door until he finds “Sarah ______” to deliver a silly envelope. Those do-gooders are so sweet thinking the rest of the world is as selfless and caring as they are…