For decades, I have been ordering stuff through the mail,
and more recently, from online catalogs, and I’ve always had excellent results
(with only a few exceptions). But lately, for some reason, I’ve had to send
back everything I’ve ordered.
First
of all, about two weeks ago, I ordered a pair of ice cleats, which basically
were a couple rows of metal studs attached to criss-crossed wide rubber bands
that stretch over shoes or boots. I was tired of taking my dogs for walks and
ending up looking like a contender for a spot on the USA Olympic figure-skating
team. And believe me, my triple toe loops weren’t at all graceful.
So
I ordered the cleats in size L, which the advertisement said would fit women’s
shoe sizes 9-11. I take a size nine.
The
cleats arrived and I was excited to try them out, especially since the road
that runs past my house had become so icy, it could have doubled as a bobsled
track. I put on my boots and then tried to stretch the studded bands over them
as my dogs, eager to go for our daily walk, stood and watched.
Never
have I struggled so hard to pull on anything (except maybe those girdles I used
to wear back in the 1960s). I managed
to stretch one of the bands from the tip of my toe almost all the way back to
my heel, but the last inch was fighting against me. I pulled, I tugged, I
called it unprintable names, but still it wouldn’t make it that last inch.
Mustering all of my strength, I gave it one more mighty pull. It slipped out of
my hand and acted just like a slingshot, flying halfway across the room and
nearly hitting one of my dogs in the head.
Defeated,
I sent back the cleats.
Then,
I saw a half-price sale online for my favorite brand of bra, so I ordered two –
one in beige and one in black. When the package arrived, I removed the first
bra, the black one, which was fine. Then I removed the second one.
It
was a flashy leopard print. It wasn’t even my brand. And it was huge.
No
kidding, I could have worn the cup of that bra over my head, tied the straps
under my chin, and used it as a helmet. I couldn’t help but wonder which
unfortunate (and extremely well-endowed) woman was futilely awaiting her
leopard-print bra.
So back
to the post office I went.
On
the same day I ordered the bra, I’d also ordered a joke gift for one of my
friends, who’s in his 70s. It was a battery-operated grumpy old man, who moves
and sings “Happy Birthday” while making rude bodily sounds. I figured it was
fair payback for the stuffed reindeer that sang endless choruses of “Grandma
Got Run Over by a Reindeer,” he sent me last Christmas.
Well,
the birthday doll arrived and although it sang and made rude noises just fine,
it didn’t move. I whacked it in the head a couple times, but still it remained
motionless. I even spent 10 minutes trying to pry open the battery compartment
way down in the back of the old man’s pants, and finally changed the batteries.
But still he refused to move.
The
weight of the doll prevented me from sending it back because the shipping
probably would have cost more than the doll itself. So I’m hoping my friend won’t even realize it was supposed to
move (unless he reads this, that is).
And
recently I experienced yet another mail-order failure.
When
I’m in bed during the cold winter months, my back always feels chilly, no
matter how many blankets I pile on. The solution I finally found was to wear a
men’s thermal top – one that comes down past my hips – over my pajama
bottoms. Before I found the perfect
shirt, however, I experimented with several different brands. One was too
short, one was too thin, one felt as rough as sandpaper against my skin, and
one was too constricting under the armpits. Finally, I found the perfect top by
Faded Glory. It was soft, really long, and had some “give” to it. I slept comfortably and toasty in it.
So
I decided to buy a couple more. The problem was, when I returned to the store
where I’d bought it, the clerk I asked led me to the sweatshirts.
“No,”
I said, shaking my head. “Thermal shirts – you know, the ones that have kind of
a waffle pattern on them?” When she just stared at me, I added, “Long johns?”
“Haven’t
seen anything like that by Faded Glory in over a year,” she finally said.
I
searched in several other stores and found nothing. So last week, I checked on
Ebay and found only one Faded Glory thermal shirt listed. It was navy blue and
miraculously, in my size. So I wasted no time buying it before someone else
snatched it up.
When
I received the package and opened it, I was puzzled. Inside was a bright red
thermal shirt – by Hanes. I sent an email to the seller and asked her what had
happened to the Faded Glory shirt she’d advertised. She wrote back and said she
didn’t know… (duh?). I was tempted to ask her if it had flapped its sleeves and
flown away. She offered to refund my money, once she received the Hanes shirt
back from me.
It
cost me $4 for shipping, which she didn’t refund. The worst part is I still
don’t have a new Faded Glory shirt. I’ve washed my old one about 100 times
already, and it’s beginning to look more like cheesecloth than a thermal shirt.
But
I think I may have figured out what happened to the shirt I ordered that
mysteriously disappeared.
It
ran off with that beige bra I never received.
No comments:
Post a Comment