The Woman in Me

The Amazon driver's photographic
proof of delivery

Last Tuesday afternoon, shortly before he had to leave for work, Joe forwarded me an email from Amazon with a photo showing four of our packages in front of what was clearly not our front door. 

Jumping into action, I waded my way through pages of evasive verbiage on Amazon.com to finally click a button that resulted in an instant call to my cell phone. After a brief hold, I was connected to a robotic female voice obviously emanating from a call center in India. 

I painstakingly explained that their driver had delivered our packages to the wrong address. “Let me check that one,” she offered in a mechanical tone. 

If you've ever been on a call with customer service in India, you know that things always go south the minute you hear "Let me check that one." It roughly translates into: "I have no idea what you just said or how I am going to help you, but let me buy some time." I tried to contain my frustration as my blood pressure started to rise.

I patiently rattled off the four 15-digit order numbers associated with each of the missing packages. And I even let it go the first time that Robot Voice referred to me as “Ma’am.”

But when it was her turn to talk and she summarized the situation by getting every single detail of the whole fiasco wrong, I snapped. I was railing against her and – I am not proud of this – questioning her IQ when Joe entered the room. I had Robot Voice on speaker.

Joe told me I needed to calm down, which only inflamed me more. Robot Voice once again called me “Ma’am” and that was it. Exasperated, I cried out at the top of my voice, “I’m a man!”

“Let me check that one,” she said, palpably not giving a damn that she had botched my gender identity. I continued to fume. Her next move, after I had loudly proclaimed my masculinity, was to ask me if my missing order contained an item called “the woman in me.”

Now, pop culture aficionados will recognize The Woman in Me as the title of Britney Spear’s new memoir. I am not sure if Robot Voice knew that. But out of the 15 or so items we were missing, she chose that one to passive-aggressively needle me with. 

At the mention of “the woman in me,” Joe lost it. So did I. The absurdity of getting bent out of shape about our four missing Amazon packages, one of which contained the aforementioned nonfiction masterpiece, came to the fore. 

I didn’t think it was worth explaining to Robot Voice that The Woman in Me was a dishy tell-all by pop singer Britney Spears that my husband had ordered to up his reading game.

Game, set, match to India. She was more cunning than I, eviscerating me with innuendo.

By now, Joe was making himself late for work by staying around to ridicule me. The Britney bio – which Joe admitted he would never read in public -- was on me, not him. I shooed him out of the kitchen and -- wonder of wonders -- managed to report our losses without further harm to my fragile psyche.

When he finally opened the garage door to get into his car for work, Joe made a discovery. Leaning against the garage door were all four of our missing Amazon packages. The driver had left them there instead of at the customary spot at the front door. Neither of us had recognized our own garage door in Amazon’s delivery photo.

As you navigate your online versus in-person shopping options this holiday season, remember the woes that ensue when having to deal with foreign call centers and robotic customer service reps. 

Above all, stay in touch with your feminine side and, if need be, remind yourself to heed the cautionary tale of “the woman in me.”