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| This looks like a dandy dryer--but I didn't order it. |
Our 6-year-old twins began squabbling at 6:52 a.m. yesterday
over whether they were going to play a five-in-a-line pattern or a fill-your-card
game of Bingo. Griffin demanded that his sister shove him the crayon box,
which she did, toppling over a full glass of milk. Last night, Georgia
hollered, “I have to pee,” as she rushed to the bathroom.
“No, I have to go
pee, pee,” her 2-year-old sister cried.
“You can use your little potty,” I said, which Jane did, and
I forgot—until half-an-hour later when Griffin kicked a ball and overturned the
toilet chair, blanketing our family room in urine.
To escape these aggravations and ease my winter blues,
I asked my mother-in-law to watch her delightful grandchildren for a
couple of hours while I took myself out for some shopping and lunch. I was
thrilled that the same fleece that had been stolen from my car on Christmas Eve—which
I had been hoping to replace ever since—was now on sale at City Sports and
available in a rich cranberry color. Furthermore, I had a gift card, which maintained
a significant balance even after my purchase. This combination of serendipity
and retail therapy buoyed my spirits. So I sped over to the Corner Bakery for
a cup of tea and a spot of tranquility before heading home to referee fights
about whether I was going to prepare penne pasta or spaghetti for dinner and to
hear my 2-year-old whine, “I’m thirsty,” when a glass of water sat near
her elbow.
But after I ordered my Uptown Turkey sandwich and was
depositing my purse, coat and packages on a chair, my mobile phone began to
squawk.
“A delivery guy is
here with your new dryer,” my mother-in-law said.
“We didn’t order a dryer,” I cried.
My panic was acute due to the recent theft of my wallet and other possession from my car. I check our accounts daily. We have fraud alerts on our credit. I’ve
grown intimate with the people at 1-800-LifeLock.
Nonetheless, someone had apparently still managed to hijack
our finances—and was ordering dryers! I began to sweat, thinking that the criminal
who’d pinched my bank cards was a genius who’d accessed our new lines of credit
and was going to toy with us by buying expensive appliances and having them
delivered to our home—just to show he had the power. Or maybe he was an idiot who’d muddled the shipping and billing addresses when placing his fraudulent order.
Or maybe I was being Punk’D.
“Are you sure your husband didn’t order a dryer?” asked the
woman at the box store, which I shall leave nameless.
“I’m sure,” I said as calmly as possible. I love Jeff, but
even if we needed a dryer, I’d have to nag him for weeks to execute such a
purchase.
“I can’t give you any more information,” the clerk said, in
response to my tumbling questions. “You’ll have to call the police.”
“What police?”
“The police you filed a report with.”
“That was weeks ago, in Philadelphia,” I sputtered. “The
dryer came to me in Bala Cynwyd. You’re in Willow Grove. What good are the
Philly cops going to be?”
The manager proved a bit more helpful by revealing some precious
hints. “It says here, ‘Deliver to gymnasium basement,’” she offered.
“I’d better have my husband call you,” I said, finally getting
around to checking the messages he’d sent in response to my panic
texts.
“That was supposed to come here,” Jeff wrote. “I have sorted
it out.” Apparently, ordering a new dryer—and putting it on his own credit
card—falls into my husband’s duties as an independent school athletic director. “I’m
just so annoyed,” he said, when we finally talked.
Frankly, I think we both felt hung out to dry.
Amidst the phone calls and anxiety, I hadn’t touched my
sandwich. But I had perspired through the armpits of my rosy new fleece. So maybe I’ll head over to my husband’s school tomorrow to give
it a thorough wash and tumble. I hear the dryer is being re-delivered—this time
to the proper place.
