I submitted this story about the trouble I had with a certain delivery company.

I have had trouble with delivery companies for many years. I can’t even count the number of complaints I have filed over the years. They don’t like to drive down my long driveway in the rural area I live in, so they keep leaving my packages on a neighbor’s front porch. My packages always come back from her house smelling terrible.

Our local postal carrier is also guilty of leaving packages at her house. After NUMEROUS complaints spanning several years and begging them to just leave an official slip letting me know I have a package waiting for me at the post office, I finally get them to understand the problem… or so I think.

One day, I get a notice that a package has been dropped off in the green car next to my mailbox. I go up to the post office and demand to speak to the postmaster.

Postmaster: *In a nice way* “Oh, you again. Here to pick up a package?”

Me: “I wish. Your carrier left this note in my mailbox that they left the package in a green car parked next to my mailbox.”

Postmaster: “Oh, that was probably so you wouldn’t have to drive all the way down here. I guess it was lucky you left your car unlocked.”

I speak louder and with more anger in my voice than I probably should.

Me: “I don’t own a green car.” *Pause* “As a matter of fact, I don’t know anyone who does own a green car. I have no idea who was even parked up on the main road next to my mailbox and the other mailboxes there.”

There are a few seconds of silence.

Postmaster: “Oh, umm… Yes, I see. That… that is not good, is it? I… Well, of course, we will replace the package, and—”

Me: “You can’t. It was a collector’s item I got off of eBay. But you sure as heck will refund the money I spent and have a little talk with the mail carrier. Grant you, this is a rural community and we tend to be laxer about certain things, but I can’t see how opening the doors of random cars is legal.”

The postmaster apologized again, and afterward, they held my packages down at the post office and left official pickup notices in my mailbox.

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You Passed The Smell Test

Automated System: “Hello, and welcome to [Insurance Company]. How may I help you?”

Me: “Person, please.”

Automated System: “I understand that you would like to speak with an agent. Please help me make sure you get to the right person by saying [list of categories].”

Me: “I don’t know. Billing?”

Automated System: “All right. I’ll get you an agent in billing. To better serve you, please state the nature of your problem. You can say [list of categories].”

Me: “None of those apply.”

Automated System: “Please say [list of categories].”

Me: “Which category do I pick for ‘My medication is temperature- and moisture-sensitive, we’re in the middle of a hot, humid August, and your company is making me get this through the mail? A mailbox, by the way, which is over a mile from my house?!'”

I am a bit angry. Just a bit.

Automated System: “Getting you a billing agent.”

Agent: “How may I help you?”

Me: “Hi. I have a medication that is temperature- and moisture-sensitive. I can’t use your mail service. I need to buy my medication at a real store, but your company won’t pay for that.”

Agent: “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you with that. Let me transfer you over to approvals.”

This song and dance went on for over an hour. I transferred back and forth between half a dozen departments. In the end, I was told that I could either pay $400 for a bottle at my pharmacy or sit by the mailbox all day. Oh, and I could make sure it got there at an expected time by paying an overnight delivery fee of $25! Yay!

Fed up, having no money for either fee, and feeling exhausted, I decided to get it through the regular mail. The medication did not come within the promised week.

I was taking the medication for a blood clot. I ran out of my medication, and my doctor had to prescribe a different type of medication — one she didn’t like because it was dangerous for me to take — just to hold me until the real medication arrived. They paid for the second one in store because it was a new medication, even though it was twice as expensive.

Another week passed, and my doctor called them, very angry. They decided to send my medication overnight as a “complimentary service,” which meant that they had never sent my medication in the first place.

No amount of complaining has done anything. I am stuck with these guys until they succeed in killing me.

I’m a kidney transplant patient, and as such, I’m considered extremely clinically vulnerable to the pesky illness that’s doing its world tour.

Wales has been in its third lockdown since December — it’s now January — and patients such as me have once again been advised to “shield” by the government, i.e. not leave the house if you don’t absolutely have to. That’s fine by me; I’ve chosen to continue to shield since the first lockdown anyway.

Our boiler is due for its annual service, and as it’s still reasonably new, the service has to be carried out in order to maintain the warranty. I call the company that we usually use to book it in.

The young lady taking my call is extremely slow at doing so — it’s a bit like dealing with Flash the sloth from “Zootopia” — but all is going smoothly and the service is offered for a few days hence.

Then, we get to the fun part.

Me: “Could you please let the engineer know that I am shielding, so I will require him to wear a mask while in the house and follow precautions?”

Employee: “Oh, do you have any symptoms? We can’t come if you have symptoms.”

Me: “No, I’m not infected; I’m just shielding.”

Employee: “So you’re isolating but no symptoms. I’m not sure if we can come, really.”

Me: “No, I’m not isolating. I’m shielding. I just need the engineer to know that, for safety.”

Employee: “So you’re saying it’s not safe to be in your property? Is someone else there showing symptoms?”

Me: *Getting frustrated* “No, no one here is infected. No one here is isolating. It is completely safe for the engineer to be here. I’m just shielding as I’m vulnerable, so he’ll need to keep away from me.”

Employee: “Oh, you’re vulnerable? Are you elderly? You don’t sound elderly!” *Giggles*

Me: *Ready to scream* “No, I just could get really ill if I catch it. So all I need is for the engineer to be made aware that I am shielding and that he needs to wear a mask at all times. Please!”

Employee: *Sounding more confused* “But you’re not elderly…?”

Me: *Sigh* “No. You don’t have to be elderly to need to shield.”

Employee: “Are you sure you don’t mean you’re isolating? Because we can’t come if you’re isolating.”

Me: *Trying not to yell at her* “Please, just pop on the notes that I’m shielding. Show your boss. If he doesn’t want to send anyone, just call me back. Will that be okay?”

Employee: “Okay, but I’m still not sure.” *Pauses while she types* “How do you spell shielding?”

I just wanted to bang my head against the table. If they weren’t a reliable and reasonably priced company, I’d have given up on that phone call. I was under the impression that shielding was a common enough term in the UK now, but maybe I’m wrong?! Anyway, after all that, the engineer is coming tomorrow. Phew!

When I am first figuring out how to do nice makeup — more than slapping on some concealer and mascara every morning like I did in high school — I go to a popular, fairly high-end makeup store. I have watched many tutorials on YouTube before even setting foot in a store, but the sheer variety of products and tools is overwhelming so I want someone to give me a hand picking out the right items. I’m greeted by an employee when I walk in, so I decide to ask her for help.

Me: “Could you help me pick out a foundation and a couple other things, please? I’ve never worn liquid foundation before, so I’m not sure what will suit me.”

Employee: “Sure thing. Well, first of all, you’re really pale, so there’s probably only a couple of brands that make a shade light enough for you in the right undertones.”

I brush off the pale comment, which is true but doesn’t need pointing out.

Me: “Right, that makes sense. Could you show me which brands you think would work?”

We do manage to find a shade match, though I note that it doesn’t seem like I’m a particularly rare shade, though I defer to her and her greater knowledge of skin undertones. I need something to apply the foundation, and I know that brushes and sponges are the two most popular products for that at the moment, so I decide to ask for help with that, too.

Me: “This looks great. So, what would you recommend to apply it with?”

The employee looks at me like I have three heads.

Employee: “Um… a brush.”

I’m concerned now because she seems confused now by what I thought was a simple question.

Me: “Right, so a brush rather than a sponge? Can you show me the foundation brushes, then?”

She walked me over to the brush section and handed me the store’s own brand foundation brush without even talking about why it was the better choice or how it would compare to a sponge, which she never acknowledged as an option. In the end, I bought the foundation and the brush, anyway, because I figured I have to start somewhere. Within a week, I realized I hated the brush and ended up going to a big box retail store to buy a blending sponge, instead, making a note not to shop at that particular location of the makeup store again.

I go into an independent coffee shop, grab a bag of espresso beans from a display, and take them to the counter.

Me: “Hi. Can I get these beans ground for espresso, please?”

Barista: “Sure. What machine do you have?”

Me: “Umm… an espresso machine.”

Barista: “Okay, but which one?”

I have never been asked that. They usually just choose the espresso setting on the grinder and whir away.

Me: “I… don’t know. I bought it second-hand; there was no box. I never looked that closely at the brand.”

Barista: “Well, I can’t grind it if I don’t know the machine. Can I get you a drink or something?”

I pull my phone out and look up “espresso machine,” showing her the first result.

Barista: “Oh, an espresso machine. Not, like a Keurig or something.”

Me: “Yeah. An espresso machine.”

Barista: “So many people get their coffee ground by us and then want to return it when it doesn’t work in their Keurig or whatever.”

She turned and ground my coffee for me. I’ve taken a photo of my machine and keep it ready in my phone if I ever encounter the request to prove I have an espresso machine again, but it hasn’t come up since.