‘Tis the season for receiving packages on the front steps when I get home from work. Since I do 99% of my holiday shopping online, that is a lot of packages.
Today I came home to this sitting on the front porch:
Well, actually, my 11 year old son came home to this “package” sitting on the front porch. Naturally, he thought it was for him. Ironically, it wasn’t. It was actually a gift my husband bought for our nephew. But that is not the point. It very well could have been for our son. The surprise would have been ruined. Surely someone at a toy store that rhymes with “Boys Car Bus” has a vague understanding that December purchases may be for gifts?
Not to mention that we had a pretty cool looking toy that was sitting on our porch for a few hours this afternoon and could have been a fun find for people out trolling around for fun finds to filch. I, personally, detest Nerf guns and the slew of Nerf bullets that I find in random places like my underwear drawer and the lettuce crisper, but still! We paid for that thing and we don’t want it stolen!
I decided to forget about the whole thing and move on. But as the night went on, I realized that I just couldn’t. I know, it’s shocking. It’s so unlike me to hold a grudge. Just ask my husband. No, actually, better not. He’ll say something to make me mad and I’ll bring it up in 2036. So, after I got all the kids in bed, I sat down to what I do best: write a letter expressing my dismay on this shoddy planning from Toy Store.
Only guess what? When I got on their website to find info for customer service and an email address, I saw that they do not correspond via email, instead, I had to pick up a telephone and call. Actually speak to a human being? Sending an anger-fueled, impersonal email is so much easier than having to speak to a real live person for someone who doesn’t like confrontation. Only mad email confrontation.
After much debate I decided that, yes, this was important to me. What if a single mom somewhere working three jobs to get food on the table for her family could only afford one gift for each of her children and ordered them online from Toy Store and they came home to find them all sitting, naked for the world to see, on the front porch? She would be devastated! I was hoping that I could save someone from unnecessary grief, so I picked up the phone.
I dialed the number, pressed “1” for English, listened to some shpeel about buying online, price matching, conga lines and hula dances (okay, I wasn’t really paying attention) and then I waited. And I waited. I waited for a very long time.
While I listened to “Your call is important to us. The next available representative will be with you as soon as possible.” 148 times (Literally. I kept tallies), I also was very blessed to be able to listen to a big band version of the “Boys Car Bus Kid Song”. Trumpets solos and snare drums really jazz that song up. But after 23 minutes of listening to that joyous music, I was ready to scream and had made up my own lyrics:
“I don’t want to be a grown up. Don’t wanna deal with this shit. I don’t wanna be on the phone for any more minutes. I don’t want to be a damn Boys Car Bus kid.”
I had been waiting for 28 minutes when a recording came on and said that the customer service department was closed and that I should call back the following business day.
Oh, I will, big giant toy store, I will.