Lady Nazi

I love to order from Amazon.com because every time a package arrives, it feels like Christmas. Because of my impulse buying, half the time, I do not remember what I ordered, so each box is a little surprise.

One of the few reasons I like my apartment is that the office will sign for packages and store them for you. They do not deliver them to your door (which, considering the random hours the office is open, should totally be a thing), but instead you go down to the office and sign out your packages. Well, shit, office…the reason I buy my crap online and have it delivered is because I don’t have to talk to another person. I hate most people, they are weird and make eye contact and want to small talk with me. It sucks.

I often go early in the morning to the office and get my packages while the office assistant guy is busy checking messages and starting his day. I have to dress up when I do this because I do not want the guy to think that I am ugly, homeless-looking or greasy just because I am free on a random weekday. By dress up, I do not mean cocktail dress, but I do mean boots/necklace/makeup.

Off I go, to pick up my package that includes such treats as doggie poop-bags and a laser pointer. I walk into the office and the usual dude is not there — instead, there is a rather stern looking older woman I have never seen before wearing a clean, pressed black outfit. Before she even looked at me, I had this vision of a prison warden or strict CEO. She noticed me go over to the package sign-out area and slowly marched over to me. In a thick German accent, she asked, “You know what you are doing?” I assured her I did — I mean, it is signing out a package, right? In my day job I have forms that make sure the correct lungs are placed inside of someone…so yeah, lady I got this ‘package log’ thing figured out.

I guess she did not trust me, so she watched as I located my apartment number, then I had to first print and then sign my name.

Apparently, I did something she did not like, because she pointed one chubby finger down at the paper and tapped on the “PRINT” title. Thickly, she queried “Do you not print? It says print, you need to print.” Yeah, I did print, though, is the thing. I am not writing a Thank You note for a bridal shower, it is a package list, woman. I replied, “I have very messy handwriting, that is my writing…it will not get any neater than that,” and instantly, my mind made a connection, a neuron fired somewhere in my brain, and I instantly thought — to prove to her I have bad handwriting I will mention a profession that has notoriously bad handwriting — so unprovoked I abruptly added “because I am a doctor.” Stupid, stupid brain.

I was unprepared for this woman to take interest in my offhand comment and I was totally shocked when she asked the follow-up question of, “What kind of doctor?” Shit. I had to think fast on my feet. I work in health care, this should be easy, I can fake it! Say OB-GYN or Neurosurgeon or Radiologist. Anything, Chelsea, say literally any speciality!!

“Huh,” I asked?

And as she was repeating her question to me, I turned on my heels and jogged out of the room, and because I did not want her to ask me again while I was waiting for the elevator, I just walked out of the building and used an alternate entrance to get back to my apartment. I also realized that she had my name and apartment number, and if she was at all curious could just look at my rental application for employment information.

“Great,” I thought, “now I am going to have to avoid her for the rest of the year. How will I get my envelopes and sweaters and lunchboxes delivered to me now!!”

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s