Another wacky sassy episode of, ‘life in the country with iKen & amy’
ken ordered something on amazon — a garden toy, or a compost thermometer, or some big bad organic bug spray in the massive ounce size — something, a few things, he couldn’t quite remember — but whatever it was, he needed it, and it was supposed to arrive two days ago.
he gets a notice this morning from amazon that UPS tried delivering this package last night at 8:32 p.m. (oh yeah right…8:32 p.m.?!) and so, i call UPS and after dicking around, back & forth back & forth, with all the automated crap — press one for english, two for spanish, three for some english some spanish plus coffee no cream — for about fifteen, twenty unbearable minutes, i press/pound zero, zero, zero, zero ZERO until a human comes on the line.
she — the human representative — tells me that no, no, no, they don’t have it, but it should be at our local post office. she also tells me i’m gonna need the tracking number to pick up this package that Ken ordered but forgot what it was that he so desperately needed but needed it by tuesday.
she asks me if i have a pen.
i tell her no. but that i can try to remember the number.
i’m good with numbers.
she says she doubts it highly.
i wanna tell her to go fuck herself, because that’s what you tell people when they doubt your capability.
i tell her to hold on, i’ll get a pen.
i scream for ken to get a pen.
ken is peeing.
he screams back: the phone is fucking cordless, you can get up off your…
uh oh, the rep is now hearing this whole exchange.
i find a pen, AND i flip ken the finger simultaneously as i’m cradling the cordless phone.
he flips me the finger back.
i mouth: FUCK YOU
he mouths: BLOW ME
she asks, ready?
i say, you betcha.
pen have enough ink? she asks.
spanking new pen full up with black ink, i say.
011 926 129 999 651 9759 1010 202 755
she repeats it twice because she is somehow convinced — throughly convinced — that i am incapable of writing down a tracking number, she then asks me to repeat it back to her — slowly — i tell her that i believe — know — that i know — that the U in UPS stands for unfuckingbelievable.
she tells me that she hopes to god to never have the pleasure of talking with me again.
i tell her the feeling is oh so mutual.
have a good day, she says.
have a good day, i say.
it was a compost thermometer.
not jo malone.
not barneys ny
not bergdorf’s or bendels or even fucking tip top shoes.
not a party dress, or sassy shoes.
not a tiara or cape.
a compost thermometer.
i was made for pavement.