Tuesday, February 03, 2015

Telepathic time machines 
Today I learned that if I want to have a package delivered to me in Lucca, Italy from the United States I need to have a sixth sense, a time machine, and some string.

I ordered some of the supplement that is helping me have relatively clear skin for the first time in years from ebay.it back in November. I ordered three months worth for $400 because it takes a long time to get here in the best of times and I didn't want to be without it. After five weeks or so I started to get worried and eventually we called Customs/la Dogana. They told us that they were waiting for a letter from the Italian Ministry of Health to approve the delivery. More time passed and we called again and were told that it was on its way to us. More time passed and we were told that it was sent back to the seller because it was deemed too large of a quantity for individual use by the powers that be but don't know shit.

 In the meantime, I exchanged very calm and reasonable emails with the seller and even ordered more to be sent to a friend's address in England to see if that worked better. The English package arrived over the holidays when my friend wasn't there to receive it and got sent back to the sender as well. I tried to contact the  so-called resolution center at ebay only to find out that because more than 45 days had passed I had to contact Paypal. Paypal won't help you after 45 days either, as it turns out, but I started documenting an exchange of emails between the seller and myself through them anyway just to keep the seller accountable. It is like marriage counselling for people who don't know each other. I was jumping up and down on my side of the computer and insisting that his snotty comment about how you can't get your money back from a grocery store without the apples you bought was pretentious and typical of his neanderthal thought process. The seller says he won't refund the package unless he gets the supplements back. Then I spoke to the call center at Customs today and the lovely and inept lady told me that there is no way for me to retrace the package and that I had a bel dilemma on my hands. She kept repeating that it was a shame. She was not even slightly put off by my raising her voice at her and I got the sense that I was the nicest, pissed off person she had dealt with all day.

I translated the whole conversation for F and then tried to explain to him what we should have done if we didn't want to lose the money and it turned out that the sixth sense and the time machine would truly have been invaluable in this situation.

On a not totally unrelated note, here is an image I found on Pinterest. To me it represents the repeating nightmare I have where all of the loser psychotherapists I have ever had gather together to live in a comune like situation where they read Shel Silverstein's The Missing Piece Meets the Big O over and over again as a sort of meditative chant and talk about how they couldn't help me. I have to admit it's a kind of cool pad. Check it out:

"Wow That Girl was a Wreck." "I know, I know. I thought so too." "I'm pretty sure I only made things worse." "Let's play Boggle tonight".
P.S. Shel Silverstein, If you're reading this I want you to know that I had a therapist who had twelve of your books on his waiting room coffee table and did nothing but quote you. I know you did not mean for your books to be misused in this atrocious and pathological manner. I don't blame you. But I just now realized why pizza makes me anxious.

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