The Comedy of Errors Continues
The package saga may never end.
This morning I checked UPS, and my yarn was on the move; it had made it from Jersey to NY, and onto a truck for delivery. This was good; I wasn't going to be home for delivery, and there is no doorman on Mondays to sign for it, but at least I would be able to reschedule delivery, and I would know exactly when it would arrive.
But this afternoon I checked again, and it said "Delivered". To whom? The porter. I was not aware that my building even had a porter, but apparently it does, and he had my yarn, and it was a beautiful thing. I raced home after work and realized that I had no earthly idea where to find my mystery porter. I scoured the basement, but nobody home. I actually called both UPS and my super to make sure the package was actually delivered to someone who works here, as opposed to a random street urchin who knows how to sign a name. Indeed, my package is in the basement, a mere 6 floors below me.
But there is a catch, since the yarn gods clearly have no intention of ever letting me knit a sock again. Apparently the porter works regular business hours. He is not here, nor is anybody else who has the keys to the little room where my lonely yarn sits.
I can't get my yarn until tomorrow.
Perhaps now would be the time to learn how to pick locks.
This morning I checked UPS, and my yarn was on the move; it had made it from Jersey to NY, and onto a truck for delivery. This was good; I wasn't going to be home for delivery, and there is no doorman on Mondays to sign for it, but at least I would be able to reschedule delivery, and I would know exactly when it would arrive.
But this afternoon I checked again, and it said "Delivered". To whom? The porter. I was not aware that my building even had a porter, but apparently it does, and he had my yarn, and it was a beautiful thing. I raced home after work and realized that I had no earthly idea where to find my mystery porter. I scoured the basement, but nobody home. I actually called both UPS and my super to make sure the package was actually delivered to someone who works here, as opposed to a random street urchin who knows how to sign a name. Indeed, my package is in the basement, a mere 6 floors below me.
But there is a catch, since the yarn gods clearly have no intention of ever letting me knit a sock again. Apparently the porter works regular business hours. He is not here, nor is anybody else who has the keys to the little room where my lonely yarn sits.
I can't get my yarn until tomorrow.
Perhaps now would be the time to learn how to pick locks.
Labels: yarn
