Ain’t no mountain high enough that can keep my cool

If I were to die tomorrow, I’d like to think my children, once they got over being sad, would regale each other with tales of when their mother went berserk.
What a great word. Berserk. It hasn’t happened often but when it did, well, it is the stuff of legends.
There was the Future Shop incident with a computer I had bought from them 18 months previous and I was still without a functioning modem. Suffice to say, my patience and tolerance for poor customer service had been extinguished.
I got a standing ovation from the lineup at the service counter when I lost my cool. Okay, they already were standing, but I did get an ovation as I kicked the box that housed my computer and demanded to know when they were going to do the right thing; when they were going to stand behind the products they sell.
It might have involved some bad language. I’m only remembering kicking the box down the aisle while I shouted about customer service.
Then there was the Canada Post incident, but I was deep into my third pregnancy and sometimes a woman just can’t hold it together, especially when you’ve stood in line for quite some time with a huge stack of metered mail and the clock ticked over to 3 p.m. just as I got to the front of the line and the post office man (the only one in that particular one-horse town) declined my stack of metered mail.
3 p.m. was the deadline. It wasn’t pretty—and I’m not apologizing.
There was a Sears incident, but I’m not even sure I recall any of those details. It ended with me cutting up my Sears card and mailing it to Sears with an angry note.
Like they cared or even noticed.
There was Thea’s student loan call on Christmas Eve telling us she was in arrears even though she’s still a full-time student. No, according to National Student Loans she is not.
But wait a minute, she just wrote exams and paid her tuition for next semester. I can’t even go there.
I now have a new entry on the list of “go crazy moments.” Enter DHL: an international shipper of some renown.
My daughter paid to have my Christmas gift shipped from somewhere in the U.S. to arrive at my door on Dec. 17—in plenty of time for Christmas. It is now many days past that and no delivery.
Why, you are most certainly asking? Apparently I don’t have a real address. Even though I walk to the end of my driveway and a nice big sign with my house number hangs from a secure post, and if I walk 400 metres down the road I come to a sign that gives my street a name, that is not a real address.
I am living in the twilight zone.
After five phone calls and three e-mails, I’m still no closer to receiving my parcel. On my last call, they said they would have a specialist call me. A specialist? Who have I been talking to, a chimpanzee?
Because she just keeps repeating, “there’s nothing I can do” over and over—and you know how chimpanzees love repetition.
I gave her a few pointers as to how I find a place I haven’t been before: Mapquest. I offered to give directions and to draw a map, and to send up flares and to light the house on fire and. . . .
To make matters worse, while I was on hold, the jingle into the phone was Diana Ross singing “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” and some sales voice advising customers that there was no mountain high enough to keep DHL from delivering.
Well, that just isn’t true, I told the sales rep when she answered. And I don’t live even halfway up a mountain.
Do you want to know how the conversation ended? She asked if there was anything else she could help me with.
Anything else? That’s just an invitation for further madness.