USPS, my love

Most of you who at least I think read this thing don't know about my run-in with the automated "phone tree" tracking hotline operated by the United States Postal Service several weeks back. Truly, only William can fully understand and appreciate the humor of the situation simply because he was there, and I might add he was all but rolling around on the floor laughing at my antics. The situation unfolded something like this:

I received a phone call in January, a reference from one of my video clients in College Station, from a woman who wanted me to create a video presentation for her father's 60th birthday party. Marvelous! This freelance work is the only thing that's keeping me afloat right now! A week and a half later, and down to the wire, I was finally able to get everything from her and get the thing done, with literally no time to spare with shipping. I traipsed to the Post Office in the freezing Wichita Falls weather where I had been staying with my sister.

A side note about that trip...the three people ahead of me in line where 60 somethings who were carrying on a hearty conversation about weather - it was very interesting to hear the first woman, a nurse, talk about a time where she was stuck at the hospital where she worked for 4 or 5 days following a snow storm that dumped eleven feet of snow on Chicago. The gentleman of the group, who was hilarious, received a phone call and quickly answered:

"Hey...no, I'm at the post office....Yeah...Well, I've been here since I was in High School, so don't count on me being there any time soon...I'm telling you, it was 1989 when I got in here..."

And the conversation continued. I about died laughing at the comment. And listen, the post office employees were moving at a rate that would put the turtle packers union to shame.

I did finally get my package in the mail, guaranteed to be delivered by 3 pm the following day. The day I was headed to visit Mr. Meier in Irving. Literally, as I was pulling into his apartment complex my client calls, freaking out because the package hadn't arrived. Great...of all the dumb luck. I'm trying to visit with a friend and now I have to deal with this. I assure her that I will contact the post office and figure out what's going on...a long story short I finally call the post office's next day air hotline to get her the best and most up-to-date information that I can, in my mind, from a helpful operator.

Much to my horror, I hear the worst. The dreaded mechanical woman calling forth from the receiver to taunt me. She was leading me to believe that I could dig information out of the web of deceit, winding trails, and dead ends that she was painstakingly weaving.

Ok...I can handle this. Deep breaths...as a communication professional, I have been trained to handle situations like this. I listen carefully to my menu options:

"For tracking and shipment information please say 'Tracking' For all other inquiries please say 'other' "

Fantastic! This is starting out well. Two options, one clearly the one that I need. I calmly state my choice,

"Tracking"

"Tracking...is this correct?"

Would I have said it if I didn't mean it?

"Yes"

"Great, let me see how I can help you."

This woman is certainly friendlier than the guy from India that helped me with my computer earlier in the month...and I can understand her more readily. I do wonder about her ability to "see" anything, but I listen on...

"Do you have questions about a late shipment?"

"Yes!" I did indeed! Either she's a mind reader or this happens a lot...either way, I'm disturbed.

"OK. Please give me the shipment number for your package. This number can be found on the original receipt given to you at the post office of origin."

I knew this number! I even knew where it was...things were looking even better. Until I glance down. The 254 digit number that stretched before me contained no letters. It contained no commas, no breaks, no anything. Just 254 single numbers stretched out in a looooong row. We all know my phobia with numbers -- we just don't get along well. But I forge ahead. What could go wrong? I'm getting along famously with the computer woman. I may ask her out before we're done.

"Six-one-seven-nine-four-one-three-eight-eight (that double ALMOST threw me)-one-seven-three-four-one-six-nine-four..." So on and so forth through the rest of the numbers I continued. It was an impeccable performance - was proud, and I knew she would be too.

"I'm sorry, I didn't hear the last five digits. You said Six-one-seven-nine-four-one-three-eight-eight-one-seven-three-four-one-six-nine-four..." and so SHE continued, but stopped before the last five digits. All is not lost, I think, I can just give her the last five numbers and we'll go on. The unthinkable happens:

"Please repeat the number so that I may accurately assist you."

That was it. I was going to lose it. How did she possibly expect me to get this right a second time? I'd gone too fast, according to Will. My apologies. I assumed the woman would be able to keep up -- after all, this is what she was trained to do! Apparently I was too good for her. How do you like that? Technology -- my butt!

I hearkened to a previous run-in I had with this woman's sister a while back. The sister seemed to have a hard time understanding any of my well trained and highly developed pronunciations of complex words such as "yes" and "no". She finally offered me an alternative solution. If I would just say "operator" I would be "transferred to a 'customer service representative' who would be able to further assist me." I hoped and prayed, then, that this would be an actual human. You know, someone who actually gets paid to solve the problems of ordinary people like me. It worked and my problem was quickly solved.

But she, she was not going to disclose such information so easily. I could tell it. She was not of the "helpful" mindset. She preferred to torment and tease me, stringing me along, knowing full well that I could do nothing about it. I was completely at her mercy.

So I did anything and red-blooded American would do. I revolted.

I began saying any word in English and any other language I could recall at the moment that might possibly prompt the smart alack to release me from her clutches. I spoke in English, Spanish, and German. I'm fairly sure I threw in some Swahili, Icelandic, and Uzbekistani (if there is such a thing). If she wouldn't cooperate, I would show her -- I would blow her fuse, confuse her so much that she would be certain to cave in.

The string of "helps," "customer services," "operators," "assistances," "humans," and "LET ME OUT OF HERES" that spewed forth from my mouth would have made even the most liberal of computer women blush. Oh, she tried to remain composed--sure. She calmly gave me an "I'm sorry, I didn't understand your last request." But this transformed quickly into a more desperate "I'm having a very difficult time understanding you," and finally, my goal reached, a simple "Please hold while I transfer you to a customer service representative for further assistance." HA!

The poor woman (the real one) who responded to my call, answered with such timidity that I was certain she was either expecting an angry 700 pound woman whose girl scout cookies had been lost in transit, or a confused Uzbekistani who spoke one word of English -- "No". She did manage to help me (if you can call her evasive, non-committal answers help) and I was able to pass the information along to my client, a few beads of sweat and a several blood pressure points later. At least I managed to entertain Will, who called my escapade the "funniest thing he had seen all week."

Which brings me to think about where we stand in our modernized "improved" technologically advanced society. I'll be writing more about this soon...but for now, I think you've had enough. Call me first if you need to call an 800 number or "help line." I offer free coaching consultations.

That's all.