The Amazon Conundrum

 December 5:  Tried to order goggles, fins, snorkel, the “Mares Package.”  Can’t sign in to my account.  Twenty minutes on the phone dealing with a vocal robot, finally reached a human being who advised me to simply start a new account.

      Later, got notice from Amazon:  Your order has shipped.

 

December 11:  Amazon emails that my order is on hold.  Contact Fed Ex.  I try tracking the package.  It went to Henderson, then to Johnstown.  It was here!  Except it wasn’t. 

     Several attempts to track the package.  Fed Ex gives me such reasons as:  Tried to deliver, nobody home.  I was home.  Another attempt stated that recipient has moved.  A third one stated that the recipient has asked for a change of address. 

 

December 12:  Worked my way through the Fed Ex phone options, finally got a lady, who gave me a case number.  “What do I do with that?”  After some hemming and hawing, the answer was “I don’t know.”  Neither did I.

 

December 14:  Amazon sends two more notices that my delivery is on hold, please contact Fed Ex. 

    Attempts to contact Fed Ex ended without me getting past the robot.  The final advice, Contact Amazon.  Click.

       I decide I had better reorder if I want the stuff before Christmas.  This time, the price has gone up from the original $30 to $48, plus no free shipping this time, over $50 for what was $30.  I exercised my 30-day free Amazon Prime trial in order to cut out the shipping cost.

      Amazon emails that my package will arrive on December 19.

 

December 15;  I get two more emails from Amazon stating the package, the original one, can’t be delivered.  Contact Fed Ex.

     I get an email from UPS stating my package will be delivered tomorrow, December 16.

 

December 16:  UPS package arrives—the original order for the Mares stuff, at least so I thought.

     I get two emails from Amazon stating Fed Ex ran into problems trying to deliver the package.  They will try again. 

     Moral:  Don’t send a Fed Ex driver to do a UPS job.  Even the USPS can do better than Fed Ex.

 

December 19: the Mares Package arrives via Prime delivery.

 

December 20:  I do a quick, and this time it really was quick, return form for Amazon and get a link, which I am supposed to copy on my phone, but instead, I printed it off.  We take it and the package to UPS.  The young lady scans the print copy, prints off a label, affixes it over the label of the unopened package, and we are on our way.  With the time waiting in line, we weren’t at UPS for more than five minutes.

     I get an invitation from Amazon to rate the seller of the Mares Package.  I decline to waste any more time on it. 

 

December 26:  I arise and look out the window to see a package on my doorstep.  It’s from Fed Ex.  It is the long lost, well-travelled, original Mares Package.  Written on it in Sharpie indelible ink, “Moved.”

      I go through Amazon’s return policy, the same one I did for the Prime delivery.  I get a notice that the shipper has been notified that I wish to return the package.  I will hear from them within 48 hours. 

 

 January 2:  Having no response from my December 26 attempt to return the third Mares package, I go through Amazon’s return form again.  Same message, I will hear from them in 48 hours.

 

January 7 or thereabouts:  I get notice my credit card account has been credited for the $50 Amazon return.  I set about to cancel Amazon Prime.  I can do that at any time, remember.  There was some slaloming among all the buttons trying to convince me to keep Amazon Prime, but I finally crossed the finish line.  My trial membership will end on January 12.

 

January 10:  Finally got a response from the Amazon vendor.  Ok to return package.  No code or UPC sticker or shipping label in the email message.

 

January 11:  I signed into my account and found a UPC code, printed it off and headed to UPS.  The young lady scanned the code and said, “Have you returned something else?”  Yes. “ You used this label.  You can’t use it again.”   The Indian guy supervising the store told me to call Amazon.  “They’ll straighten it out.”  Oh boy.  Just what I wanted to hear.

    I called Amazon.  It took three tries to get a human.  On try one, the robo voice wanted me to verify my account by giving him (it?) the code they texted to me.  Except when I tried to get the text, I lost the robot.

      On try two, I requested my code via email, which I got.  But when I used it, I had to sign in to my account, even though I was already signed in.  When I signed in, I got sent back to the request to verify my account, which sent me to the sign in page, which sent me back to the verify my account.

     On try three, I answered “NO” to all Mr. Robo’s requests.  Finally, he asked if I needed to talk to someone on the phone.  “YES!”  Give him my phone number and they would call me.  I filled in the number and waited. 

     Finally, I checked my phone.  It had managed to turn the ringer off.  Amazon had indeed called.  I called back.  This time, I didn’t have to deal with Mr. Robo.  I got some lady somewhere on the other side of the world, whose English I could barely understand, who called me “Steaven” to rhyme with “heaven”.  

     I took a vow of patience with myself and explained that I had a third package that I had not paid for and I would like to return.  She looked at my account and explained that I already had returned a package and got a refund.  Yes, but I got a third package for which I have paid nothing, and I would like to return it.

     Two put-on-holds-with-scratchy-worn-out-music later, she came back on to tell me I did not have to return the package.  I would be getting a refund.  I patiently explained that I was not due a refund.  Oh well.  As recompense for my inconvenience, I was to keep the package and I would get the refund.

     Okay.  I tried.  I will need some documentation to prove we had this conversation.  You will get an email.  And I did.

     It remains to be seen if my credit card gets another refund, but if not, okay.

     Maybe I am done.

      I won’t hold my breath.    

 

January 13:  Capital One notifies me that I have a credit from Amazon. 

     I’m still waiting for the second shoe to fall.

 

“Pie”pourri

       Or, how new recipes come about.

     “Dad, did you put Italian Seasoning on the apple pie?”    

     “No, I don’t think so.”

     “Well, it looks like Italian Seasoning.”   Takes a closeup sniff of the pie.  “It smells like Italian Seasoning.”    Cuts a piece, puts it on a plate, takes a bite.  “It tastes like Italian Seasoning, too.”

      Well, it probably was Italian Seasoning on top of the apple pie.  I took a second look and had to agree.

      The night before, as I slid the pie into the hot oven, I realized I had forgot to put cinnamon on top of the apples before I put on the top crust.  So, I went to the cabinet, pulled down the plastic jar, and sprinkled some on top of the pie crust, closed the oven door, placed the jar back in the cabinet. 

     After about 45 minutes, I pulled the pie out and let it cool for a while.  I placed it in a pie carrier and put on the hood of the pickup in the garage.  I never looked at the pie again until the preceding conversation took place.

      Yes indeed, I did put Italian Seasoning on top of the apple pie.  The cinnamon is right next to the Italian Seasoning in the cabinet.  As I was preoccupied with something else, a nearly constant state of mind these days, though I would be hard-pressed to tell you what I was mulling over, I never gave it a second thought. 

      My never-very-great sense of smell didn’t give me a clue.  It took a daughter to bring it to my senses, all both of them, smell and taste.  It didn’t taste great.  I wouldn’t recommend it for a future recipe.  However, I only got to eat one piece when I brought the leftovers home.  None of it went into the waste basket.

 

      One-oh-four on one-oh-four.  We singing boys (one of us is in his twenties) did a gig at a local assisted living facility for a 104-year-old lady who was born on January 4.  Her 104^th birthday fell on January 4, 2023.

     The activities director hired us to serenade Irene on this occasion.  We did some old chestnuts that she knew.  I don’t think she fully appreciated our effort, especially since she had to sit in her chair throughout the whole thirty minutes we sang.

      When she recognized one of the songs, she tried to sing along, but she was usually a phrase behind us.  Her impaired hearing made it difficult to converse with her, but we did our best.  So did she.

      At 104, she was born in 1919, the same year as our mother. Granny has been gone for twenty years.  It’s hard to imagine living that long.

     Irene was attended to by one of her cousins as well as the activities director.  I think she must have outlived her children.

 

     Tru-Vue.  We went to a “Memory Café” as our initiation to a program called “Dementia Together.”  As we were newbies, we didn’t know that attendees were invited to bring an antique.     

    After the show-and-tell from the audience, a young lady from a neighboring town’s museum took the microphone and proceeded to talk about some of the antiques she had brought from the museum’s collection.  She had toys, kitchen utensils, and tools.  The thing that stimulated my memory was what she called a stereoscope, I think.

      We had something similar when we were kids.  It had disks with a dual set of pictures.  It was a kind of 3-D, I think, for when you looked in the eye pieces, it was like you were right there, in the scene.  By pulling a little lever on the upper right side, you advanced the disk to the next scene.  I don’t really remember much about those pictures, except one of Bethlehem, I think, that had an old bearded guy in a turban and robe of many colors, mostly drab, standing in front of a house.  The remarkable thing to me was how small the house was.  Was it a toy house, I wondered.

      But that isn’t what I remembered about 3-D viewing.  What I remember was a Tru-Vue owned by a favorite Uncle and Aunt and discovered by a favorite cousin.  In later years, I began to realize that maybe what James and I viewed in that Tru-Vue might have been forbidden fruit.

      Of course, forbidden fruit is all the more sweeter, to use a double superlative.  What we were viewing was Sally Rand doing her bubble dance.  Her only apparel was high heeled shoes.  Truthfully, you wouldn’t know if she was wearing any clothing because she held a huge translucent bubble between her and the camera. 

      When the museum lady presenting at the Memory Café asked for comments or questions, I asked if anybody in the room remembered Sally Rand, the bubble dancer.  To my surprise, many of those present answered with a resounding “Yes!”

      The young lady was a bit nonplussed when I described the Tru-Vue I knew about.  The viewer she brought had some boring desert scene.  Another old gal surmised that the really interesting pictures were worn out long ago and no longer available.  Only the boring ones that nobody looked at remain for posterity.

     I don’t know if Sally Rand pictures were worn out or not.  I think the Tru-Vue disappeared somewhere along the line.  Too bad.

      I wouldn’t mind having another look.