On Friday morning, while I was putting Ursula down for a nap, I missed a call.
There was an automated voice message from Purolator: my package was available for pickup at their warehouse location, affectionately known by everyone as "The World’s Most Inconvenient Spot To Pick Up Anything. Ugh. Ugh. Ugh."
(Case in point: It takes less time to drive to Orangeville than it does to take transit to their warehouse.)
I was unimpressed. Here’s why:
- Either Matthew or I had been home during business hours for the entire week prior. And no one once tried to deliver a package.
- No one even left a “we missed you” note.
- It seemed that they didn’t bother to try to deliver my package AT ALL.
- I was under the impression that online shopping — I had ordered a shirt from a small American company — was supposed to make my life easier, not headachier.
Because transit would end up taking over two hours (round trip), Matthew offered to drive me. We bundled up Ursula and drove to the other end of the city. Rush hour starts before 3 on a Friday. It was brutal.
When I got to Purolator, the woman at the front desk seemed confused by the reference number left on my voicemail. Fortunately, my phone number was on file.
After waiting for
approximately forever five very long minutes, she presented me with a package. She looked confused.
“Only one of your names is right.”
Sure enough, the package was to an Elizabeth — my middle name — who has a very different last name and address than me. But she has my phone number. Or at least she did at one point more than 10 years ago and hasn’t bothered to change it with certain clients/customers/companies/friends/family members/mail-senders.
We headed back home, empty-handed, an hour gone from our day.
And I’m still waiting on my package.
Moral of the story: If you change your number, make sure EVERYONE knows it. Or a stranger could end up trying to pick up your mail.