Fed up with FedEx

There is nothing more frustrating than waiting for the phone to ring. It is an eternity in limbo, a season in purgatory. I have absolutely no control; I'm at the merciless mercy of another. When faced with these situations, I tend to nap, hoping that the unwatched kettle will boil sooner.

eBay's "Buy it Now" button has been good to me. No more waiting for auctions to end, sniping or being sniped. Just click, click, click, and it's on its way. eBay and PayPal, together, are the fulfillment of the American Dream: the magic of the internet, the miracle of a cashless society, the acquisitional greed. But every dream has its nightmare.

The Gospel According to Tom Petty tells us that the waiting is the hardest part, and He's really hit the nail on the head this time.

Every delivery method has it's own personality, and a tracking system, some more reliable than others. My favorite system is the United States Postal Service, Priority Mail. At the USPS tracking is a joke, and I do have a sense of humor. I always have the merchandise in my hand before they've updated from entered into the system to in transit. But balancing this against a super-quick turnaround time and a reliable delivery person, tracking becomes a non-issue. UPS, the sexy boys in brown, is my second favorite. Each UPS driver is a brunette twink from a William Higgins film, and the summer shorty uniforms accentuate their positives. Their tracking system is accurate, and I've managed to train the drivers to leave packages on my back porch if I'm not home to fantasize about them personally.

Which leads me to FedEx. Their tracking system is precise and unforgiving. They are willing to leave flatwork tucked inside the storm door, but anything else becomes a battle of wits and wills. A battle I always lose, because they cheat. I'm not sure I've ever even seen a FedEx driver. I think they are all ex-military people, probably special-ops types, Marines and Navy SEALs. Their specialty is stealth. These highly-trained professionals can silently tag an inner door without disturbing a cathair tumbleweed, or a napping Tom Kitten. By the third notice, I've always given up the fight, and have made arrangements to drive the fifty-seven miles to their nearest Home Delivery substation to pick up my treasures myself. I've tried staying awake for their arrival, but that doesn't work either. Any distraction -- a call of nature, a ringing telephone -- and I've lost the battle and the war. I have sat from 8am to 7pm on my front porch, catheterized and high on caffeine, only to find that their tracking system indicates that they were unable to make delivery at 11:47am because "customer was unavailable." By the time I get back down to the door to examine it for evidence, the delivery attempt tag will have magically appeared, stuck on the inside of the squeaky storm door.