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Saturday, July 18, 2009

Checks, FedEx, and Doctor's Appointments

This entire month has been like a bad John Candy movie. You know, like Planes, Trains, and Automobiles, where everything goes wrong for our poor protagonist, and the audience laughs at his pain. I can't stand movies like that. What About Bob? is another offender. I think I'm the only person who hates that movie. I feel seriously bad for Richard Dreyfus the whole time. Everybody just loves Bill Murray, because he's quirky, and lovable, but really, his character is a waste of space that causes nothing but bad ju-ju.

Well, yeah, this entire month it has felt like we're Richard Dreyfus, and Bill Murray is playing Lady Fate who's weaving, plucking, cutting, strumming, and tying freaking knots all up in the strings of our fate. In short, nearly everything we've tried to accomplish this month has gone wrong in one way or another, hence my single sentence month-cursing blog post earlier. I seriously hate this month. What a freaking tool July 2009 is!

Pretty much the only thing that has gone right logistically (and I'm absolutely grateful that it has), is that my loans were correctly certified by my school, and so my finances are handled for this year. Halle-freaking-lujah!

So do you want to hear the stories that have made our month a nightmare? I may have hinted at some of it. You've heard how we lost the first apartment that we thought we had because the moron receptionist of the complex incorrectly told us it was available one month before it is actually available. While infuriating, that could be an honest mistake. But after the ordeal we went through trying to get our deposit check back, I'm convinced that this receptionist is actually mentally deficient.

First off, she sent our $300 cashier's deposit check - which is practically the same thing as cash, since we exchanged cash to get it, and it wasn't linked to either of our accounts - via regular mail. No certification or tracking whatsoever. No way to prove she sent it or anything. And after a week with nothing showing up in the mail, we were getting nervous. It does not take a week for mail to travel from PDX to SLC. We checked the mail day after day, and nothing ever came. Ian was pissed off, and I kept trying to calm him down by saying that they were giving us our money one way or the other, even if we had to small claims court their asses, but in truth I wasn't looking forward to having to deal with that in addition to our move and my starting school. Still, principal is principal, and I was willing to do what it took.

Then, nearly a week since she claimed she mailed the check, and a week and a half since we had asked for it back, the check shows up in the mail. The dumb bitch had written the wrong ZIP on the envelope, and it ended up being routed to Bountiful. At least it was the same state, but god, how irresponsible. Lucky for us the Bountiful postal workers were willing to do a little research and figure out where the envelope ought to be routed. Postal workers are not always so willing. They can be rather disgruntled, you know.

And finally, the waste of space had already endorsed the god damned check. Fuck. How fucking stupid can you be? (Is my irritation comely across clearly enough?) But she sent it with a letter apologizing for everything that had happened, and Ian took the check to the bank with the letter, and the teller had to get managerial approval, but they were able to cancel the check and give us back our money. Which is good. Because, if we would have had to send that check back to that cretin so she could cash it and issue us a new check (which arguably she should have done in the first place), I may have started to launch fiery daggers out my eyes. So furious was I.

Story two. So, we have this other rental that we are applying for. It has been a long time since I initiated discussions with the manager, but I spent the better part of last week freaking out because our applications and application fee were trapped in the death limbo that is FedEx's Adult Signature Required delivery option. For future reference to any of you who use FedEx. NEVER SELECT ADULT SIGNATURE REQUIRED!

NEVER!

I simply can't stress this enough. You won't find this anywhere on FedEx's website (I know, I looked, and if it is actually buried on there somewhere, it is so obscure it might as well not even be there), but when you select Adult Signature Required, you are effectively forfeiting your right as the sender to control anything that happens to your package.

For instance, a married couple manages this new apartment place. The wife was out of town on vacation when I shipped the package overnight (which, might I add, is not cheap), and I knew she would be, but I didn't know her husband wouldn't be around during the day to receive the package. He works, apparently, which is reasonable, but you know how some managers are full time managers, and all that. I thought that was the case. So after the second misdelivery, I called FedEx and asked them to remove the signature requirement. I put it there, after all, so I thought I should be able to remove it. I'm sorry, ma'am, this is an Adult Signature Required package, and once you put that on there, we can't remove the requirement. Fie upon you, wench! But fine, I called the manager and left a message, letting him know the package was in town trying to be delivered. Then I called him again in the evening, and got him on the phone. He let me know he works during the day, and I said, great, I can have it forwarded to your work address. Fantastic, he says. Call FedEx again, get a very friendly call center associate on the phone, and he's extremely apologetic when he tells me that because the package is Adult Signature Required, he cannot forward it for me. Why (the fuck) not? Just can't. If it were Direct Signature Required, he could do that, but not Adult. Well, hell, I didn't know that. To me Adult Signature Required says that if a 7 year old answers the door, you are not to deliver it to him, but to wait for mommy or daddy to come home. It doesn't say Ha ha, your expensive package is now completely out of your control! Ha ha!

So I hung up the phone, sehr frustrierend, and then went to cry to Ian. He thinks, aw shit, they gave the place to someone else, and through my sobs, I tried to explain that it wasn't a big deal, everything was going to be fine, there's just another little road bump. Now I have to call back this poor manager, and explain that I'm a tool, and I have to make him go out of his convenience and pick up the package. I hate making phone calls (telephonophobia, if you recall), so all this has been bad enough, but now I have to make a very unpleasant phone call. So I get my tears under control, and dial the numbers to get it over with. I explain the situation, and am terribly apologetic, and the manager says, it's ok, these things happen, I can pick it up. I'll call you when I have it.

So the next day he calls, says he's got the package, and I am relieved. But now, since it only got to him this Tuesday, presumably they are still processing our application, and I don't know how long it will take to find out if we have a place to live or not. If it doesn't come through for some reason (really, it ought to, but after what happened with the first place, I don't feel secure in betting on it), then we are just gonna go up there and get an extended stay hotel for the first little while. And I suppose, now that I think about it, that I will try to remember to pack my law books in my car, so I will have access to them. Here's hoping we just get the damn place.

Third story. Completely unrelated to all this moving nightmare, but it was the straw that broke the camel's back for me. I just can't handle more stuff going awry. So I had a routine doctor's appointment on Friday morning at 11:AM. I arrive at 10:50, check in, pay my copay, and patiently wait in the waiting area like a patient patient does. I even managed to not become irritated when a fellow patient sitting next to me decided to engage in a rather personal cell conversation, despite the no cell phone signs that litter the reception area. I'm a little irritated thinking about it now, but at the time, all was well. So, after a few sessions of Drop7 on my iPod Touch (terribly addictive game), I noticed that people who came in well after me were being called back well before me. Dub-tee-eff? I thought. Then, a nurse lady calls "Sra", and I get up and walk toward her. "Did you call 'Sra'?" I asked.

"Sra Rogerson?" She said.

"No, Sra Tree," I said.

"No, I need Sra," she said, at which point I was about to point out that Sra was indeed my first name (my last name is also a first name, as many people in my life have oh so helpfully pointed out, and this seems to confound people more often than it should, but maybe that's just my intellectual superiority complex showing through again), but I decided against it since I knew she had a different Sra's chart anyway.

Waited around many more minutes. Noticed a sign on the wall that said if you have been waiting more than 20 minutes, check in at the front desk to inquire about the status of your appointment. It was now 11:40. I had been here 50 minutes. Glanced back at the line at the check in desk, which was long. Decided to wait a little longer.

Nurse comes back out and calls Sra.

"Sra Tree?" I ask, standing up, "Sra --- Tree?" I say again. Thought it might help to really spell out who I am.

"Sra Rogerson, is that you?"

"No, Sra Tree."

"I need Sra Rogerson. You are my witness, I have called her, what--"

"--At least three times," I finished. "I wish I would be called."

And she walks away from me, unconcerned with my plight.

I sit down, wait a few more minutes, and then the front desk finally clears. So I approach the receptionists.

"Hi, I've been waiting a really long time, can you tell me what's going on with my appointment?"

"Oh, dear. Were you here to see Dr. Blake?"

"No, Dr. Jay," I said. "The name is Sra Tree."

"Oh..." another receptionist chimes in, "The wrong Sra came back for your appointment, I'm so sorry!"

"Ok." I mouth to her with a pissy smile, and go to sit back down.

"--We'll get you in as soon as possible, I'm so sorry!"

Come on, Sra, let it go, you don't have to cry, come on. So I'm trying to hold it all in. Dammit, I've been all waterworksy this entire month. I swear, I'm not usually so emotional, don't really cry all that much, but it's just been one thing after another, and I'm just so sick of it. I want it to let up, I want whoever is fucking with my fate to leave me the hell alone for a minute! Why? Why is it me this month, who did I wrong karmically?

So luckily they take their sweet ass time calling me back, and I have a few more minutes to compose myself. When at long last I am called, the nurse gives me an apologetic smile and says she is so sorry about this mix-up.

I say nothing in return, firstly because I'm not one to say something is ok when it isn't, and secondly, it may have just caused me to tear up again. I wanted to just get this all over with. We do the weigh-in (status quo - way to go!), take my blood pressure, which seemed a little higher than my usual, probably because I was so distraught, and then she finally left me in peace to wait for my doctor.

Dr. Jay is a really cool guy. He has a way of making you feel like you're not being molested while he's feeling up your boobs for irregular lumps, and sticking foreign objects in your VIP lounge. So, miraculously, I felt better after his exam.

But I still snubbed the receptionist when I picked up my prescription on my way out.

Oh no. You'll get no "It's ok" from me. People always say they're sorry until you say it's ok, because they feel like they need to hear it before they can move on with their lives. But sometimes, it's just not ok.

This month? Totally NOT.

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6 comments:

B.R. said...

I, also, couldn't understand how people thought What About Bob? was funny. I lamented the destiny of Richard Dreyfus and wanted to slap Bill Murray's character silly. I always felt like saying: "Shut up, shut up, you crazy kook, shut up!"

My stomach hurts when I observe people who refuse to stop asking for attention, the kind who never get the point that you will NEVER, EVER, EVER allow them even into the very suburbs of your life.

Poor, Dryfus, indeed.

This is quite a post.
Hm.
I'll tell you what my Dad always tells me: "In spite of all the stupidity you see around you, you shall prevail."

Dena said...

Holy crap.

ModernMom said...

Oh My Goodness. First time reader but just had to comment. I just about cried along with you as I read this post! Hope hope your August is better then you stressed out July!

Sra said...

Thanks for the good wishes, folks. This has been a terrible month, but I'm thinking maybe school will prove not as daunting after all this.

I'm going to have to remember that crazy kook line next time stuff like this comes up :)

Erin said...

Harre Gud. I feel you, Sra.

First, you assign a time period. "This is the worst month/week/day/hour/decade in the world, and the next thing that goes wrong, I'm going to poop right here on the floor so that someone in the world has to deal with the shit I've been dealing with."

Then you memorize the list of things that have gone wrong in said time period. And add to it with a vengeance. Like the doc's office. Not relevant to moving, but it's in the same month.

The other way to put it is, moving sucks. It sucks away all your will to cope with anything else that goes wrong.

God. Your move is my 7-week menstrual period.

I'd love to tell you it'll be over soon. But I can offer no such guarantee.

You can, however, be assured that you will meet fascinating strangers and be surprised constantly.

Dude. I miss moving. No, wait. Not at all. But adventure? It's worth the poopiest poop-on-the-floor month in history.

You'll be there soon.

(See, that's what I wrote to you instead of an impassioned rampage on WHY THE FUCK SHOULD MOVING BE THIS COMPLICATED AND IMPOSSIBLE IN OUR MOBILE, DIGITALLY-ENABLED, NO-ONE-FUCKING-STAYS-IN-THE-TOWN-WHERE-SHE-GREW-UP ECONOMY. LIKE HELL AM I GOING TO TRAVEL FROM STATE TO STATE WITH $7,000 CASH IN MY PURSE, WHICH IS WHAT I HAD TO PAY TO MOVE TO UTAH. WHY CAN'T I MAKE CAPITAL LETTERS BIGGER AT WILL?

MOVING

IS

BULL

SHIT.

Yeah, time to lay off that PBR.

Lemme just say that I feel you, Sra.)

Erin said...

Harre Gud. I feel you, Sra.

First, you assign a time period. "This is the worst month/week/day/hour/decade in the world, and the next thing that goes wrong, I'm going to poop right here on the floor so that someone in the world has to deal with the shit I've been dealing with."

Then you memorize the list of things that have gone wrong in said time period. And add to it with a vengeance. Like the doc's office. Not relevant to moving, but it's in the same month.

The other way to put it is, moving sucks. It sucks away all your will to cope with anything else that goes wrong.

God. Your move is my 7-week menstrual period.

I'd love to tell you it'll be over soon. But I can offer no such guarantee.

You can, however, be assured that you will meet fascinating strangers and be surprised constantly.

Dude. I miss moving. No, wait. Not at all. But adventure? It's worth the poopiest poop-on-the-floor month in history.

You'll be there soon.

(See, that's what I wrote to you instead of an impassioned rampage on WHY THE FUCK SHOULD MOVING BE THIS COMPLICATED AND IMPOSSIBLE IN OUR MOBILE, DIGITALLY-ENABLED, NO-ONE-FUCKING-STAYS-IN-THE-TOWN-WHERE-SHE-GREW-UP ECONOMY. LIKE HELL AM I GOING TO TRAVEL FROM STATE TO STATE WITH $7,000 CASH IN MY PURSE, WHICH IS WHAT I HAD TO PAY TO MOVE TO UTAH. WHY CAN'T I MAKE CAPITAL LETTERS BIGGER AT WILL?

MOVING

IS

BULL

SHIT.

Yeah, time to lay off that PBR.

Lemme just say that I feel you, Sra.)

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