Three Kinds of Stupid
Oh, y’all. There is so much Stupid in my life. So much that it merits an entry. So much that I can actually divide it into three whole categories when I write about it. So much that… that I haven’t even the foggiest idea how to finish that sentence or finish this intro, so I am just going to commence writing about the Stupid.Stupid That Is In No Way My Fault
Kate discovered this bit of Stupid and kindly shared it with me last night. She does a lot of shipping through UPS for work. And when you do a lot of shipping, the amount of times that the shipping gets fucked up rises proportionately. (Unless you have angered the shipping gods. Or are mailing magic pants, apparently. Because has anyone else seen Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants? And if so, has anyone else noticed that the pants seemed to fail at the “traveling” part of the equation with alarming frequency? I don’t know, maybe they were just trying to add drama with the whole utterly inexplicable package continually being lost in the mail thing, but all it did was divert my attention from the Teens In Crisis over to, “Holy Crap. I am never mailing anything EVER AGAIN. But I digress. A lot.)
Now one would expect that UPS, being a shipping dynasty, for the love of God, would be aware that shipping problems cause anxiety, and- not wanting to cause anxiety in their customers (...Comcast), would have developed an advanced, efficient way of handling said shipping problems. One would be sad and naive, however, if one expected that. Instead, UPS has a policy that works in the way to cause the shipper the maximum stress possible.
UPS refuses to ship for you unless you give them a phone number. Again. You HAVE to give them a PHONE NUMBER. So… they have a phone number. And when a package gets lost and sent back to them, they… call you? Right? At the phone number? That they demanded?
No.
They send a postcard. Back to the wrong address. Telling the people at the wrong address who already sent the package back that… that the package was delivered to the wrong address.
Why, people? Why?
Stupid That Is Only Partially My Fault
Scene from last night’s work out with my personal trainer:
Me: (Lying on my back, draped over a large bouncy ball.)
PT: “Ok, now walk out a bit until only your head and neck are on the ball.”
Me: “Um. Ok.”
PT: “Good! Now raise your butt up higher than your knees.”
Me: “I… ow. This isn’t real, is it. You are just seeing exactly how far I will go.”
PT: “Nope! This is real! And fun! Although, maybe my idea of fun is different than yours.
Me: “In that mine tends to NOT involve myself looking like a drunken, upside down crab in public? Yeah.”
PT: (Hands me 2 ten pound barbells.) “Now. Hold these in your hands and straighten your arms, then bend your elbows, bringing them back towards your head for triceps work.”
Me: (To reprise. On my back, on a ball, supported only by my neck and shoulders, ass in the air, and pretty sure my triceps? Stopped working sometime around the 3rd set of lifty things I did with a bar while balanced on the squishy half ball about a half hour ago.) “Um… I am going to hit myself in the head.”
PT: “No you’re not!”
Me: “Um… Look, I’m telling you…”
PT: “Come on! Ten! Nine! Eight! Get your butt up!”
Me: (on the inside) “This is a baaad idea.”
PT: “Seve-“
Weight: “Thunk.”
PT: “OH MY GOD. Are you ok??? I could totally HEAR THAT WEIGHT HIT YOU IN THE HEAD.”
Me: (Butt totally not up.) “Funny, I never could have seen THAT one coming.”
Stupid That is Totally, Entirely My Fault
So, I never got to go see my favorite co-worker yesterday to discuss 24. And… there may be a different show, that even while it is completely awful is also filled with Pretty, and she may have watched it last night and sent me a few e-mails about it. And… maybe I was reading those e-mails while pretending to talk to my boss about work and maybe I sort of busted out laughing mid-conversation. But anyway, even if all of this stuff happened, the point is I was very excited to go talk to her. So excited that I sort of neglected my morning routine. Including the part where I attach my ID to my pants. So I ran to talk to her, and…
Yep. Locked myself in the stairway. Again.
And this time? No one rescued me. I had to sneak down to the eighth floor, where I hid in a Secret Agent Crouch until the hallway was empty, and then ran to the elevator, trying to look all nonchalantly at the guard and pretend that, yes, Mr. Guard, I TOTALLY BELONG HERE, and I was so busy looking nonchalantly at the guard that I failed to notice that the elevator doors had CLOSED, until I nonchalantly walked right into them. And then I still had to call my co-worker to let me out of the elevator bank.
Sigh.
posted by Citycat @ 1:24 PM
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