Fun with Fed-Ex

So last night I came home and found a door tag from FedEx. “We’re sorry we missed you!” it trilled sweetly, “And, oh by the way, this was our third and final attempt to notify you, so lotsa luck!”

This was news to me, since this was the first door tag I’d seen. No really. The FIRST. Not the second. Not the third. The FIRST. I call Fed Ex. “Our records show that we attempted to deliver the package three times” said the stupid and bull-headed Asian Indian guy Fed Ex has outsourced their customer relations to.

“I only received one door tag,” I said.

“Our records show that this is the third attempt,” said Shamu, or whatever his name was.

“If it was, I was certainly never notified of the first two,” I said, beginning to feel crabby.

“Our records show that this is the third attempt.”

“Your records are wrong,” I said.

“Our records show that this is the third attempt. Our contract with the sender is fulfilled.”

“Your records are wrong,” I replied, beginning to resent some Indian jackass calling me a liar to my face. “I need you to re-deliver the package.”

“Our records show that this is the third attempt. Our contract with the sender is fulfilled, so you must contact the sender.”

“YOUR RECORDS ARE WRONG! AND HOW DO I KNOW WHO THE SENDER IS IF YOU NEVER DELIVERED THE PACKAGE???”

“Our records show that this is the third attempt. Our contract with the sender is fulfilled, so you must contact the sender. The records say the package originated in Italy.”

“Let me get this straight. Your lazy excuse for a driver fills out a false record of two delivery attempts that never happened; and I now have to contact someone in ITALY to resend it, when you only notified me ONCE??!!??”

“Our records show that this is the third attempt. Our contract with the sender is fulfilled, so you must contact the sender.”

(I am now beginning to understand why people in the USA get so frustrated they grab the nearest weapon and go postal … so to speak. Luckily for my neighbors I don’t have any weapons handy … unless you count the stapler. I can just see tomorrow’s headlines: “Crazed woman goes postal with stapler. Victims flee in terror saying, “Ouch.”)

“YOUR RECORDS ARE WRONG!”

The conversation in frustration escalated until Shamu finally admitted he could contact the regional office and have them hold the package until Saturday instead of tossing it back across the ocean. Of course, the Regional Office is in Peabody, which is about 20 minutes away as the crow flies ... crows, of course, not being subject to the infrastructure, such as it is, of Massachusetts..

I look at the map and already see yet another day of frustration I didn’t need, because driving ANYWHERE in the State of Massachusetts – if you’ve never been there before – is enough to send normal people off the deep end and up to the roof of the Texas Tower right beside Whitman.

In addition to their policy of issuing drivers’ licenses only to people who have FLUNKED their drivers’ tests, Massachusetts has a standing policy of saving money for politician’s pockets by refusing to spring for the cost of street signs. Half the time you have no idea where you are, what street you’re on, how you got there, or how you can get yourself turned around to try and retrace your route after you’ve gotten hopelessly lost, without crashing into the Driving School dropouts who are driving on the wrong side of the road. It is the single most destructive and dangerous state in the Union for drivers and even people born and raised in Massachusetts will agree with you.

They change the names of streets approximately every two blocks and never bother to mention that. They wait until you're AT a street light in heavy traffic to tell you should have been in another lane altogether if you wanted to get to where you're going - you now have no choice but to turn right and drive into the ghettos of ... say, Worcester, where the ghettos are appalling.

Well, in this case, FedEx was on the far side of the always entertaining Route 1, which is divided in half by a large barrier and no signs to tell you, "MAKE A U-TURN HERE!" - you just have to make a wild guess and hope for the best. Nothing like having to drive down the Massachusetts Speedway with untrained race car drivers, while trying to catch a glimpse of a single sign that might get you going back the other direction.

Took me three hours to make a 20 minute trip. And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm just going to sit here for a while and twitch.

Originally published:  Oct. 11th, 2007 at 4:46 AM