Diary of a Missing Blow-Up Doll Girlfriend
|from The X-Files|
...as I opened the box, I realized: this was not the doll I ordered. She gave me a sullen glare, lipstick smeared across her vinyl cheek. Slowly, regrettably, I closed the box and dialed UPS. We'd meet again, that brown-shorted man and I.
Diary Entry: I've been waiting since before Thanksgiving. Shipping lines are jammed this time of year, I know. But I felt a shiver creep from the nape of my neck and settle in my groin when I saw that pink paper stuck to my door, flapping in the breeze: SORRY YOU WERE OUT. As I read fervently through the instructions - please let there be an option to leave a signature - I broke into a sweat. Yes! I signed the paper and left in exactly. the. same. spot. When I woke up in the morning, the paper was gone, but two sheep were tied to the stoop railing.
It's almost Christmas...
Diary Entry: My phone rang; I let it go to voicemail. The message was from a professor at the community college down the street. I called back and got the professor's admin. The admin had a nasally voice.
"I believe some of our students have had a prank at your expense. We were expecting a cadaver, but they laid out a blow-up doll on the table. Your name and number were on the invoice." I had to think about this.
"Was she blonde?"
The admin hung up on me.
|photo by B. Denz|
Diary Entry: This morning I found a bottle of tequila on my front stoop, with a note: 'dear neighbor - we aren't sure whether your box was misdelivered or if our teenage son took it off yer porch, but suffice it to say you don't want that package back. We assure you he's being punished. In fact, if you'd like a used game console, we'd be glad to give it to you as he's not allowed to have it. He's apparently ready to change hobbies. Anyway, please let this bottle of tequila tide you over and you should report your package as non-delivered. We are very, very sorry. You can't know how sorry. Wish we'd had a girl." **
Diary Entry: I found a strange bill in the mail from a doctor's office I didn't know. I called the number provided to lodge a complaint. A stiff-sounding nurse answered...
"This is not my bill," I told her. "I've never been there."
The nurse coughed. "It's for Nancy,” she said.
"I don't know a Nancy."
"Sir, we received a box last Thursday, addressed to you."
“You opened it?! Why didn't you send it back?" I was flustered.
Nurse Stiff took a tone with me. "We ran a few tests...she seems to be pregnant.”
"Hey. HEY." I was losing my nerve. "You open the package, YOU pay the bill." I slammed down the phone.
Diary entry: I've sent multiple emails to Customer Service without response. I tried to cancel the charge, but PayPal has advised that I need to make contact with the company first. For the last three days I've called the 800 number, sat on hold with tired 80s hold music - how many times must a person listen to Pat Benatar sing We Belong?? Finally I get an answer.
"This is Nancy, how may I be of assistance today?"
"Funny, I'm looking for Nancy."
"I'm Nancy; do I know you?"
I manage to tell Nancy the whole story - the wrong blow-up doll, the wrong box, the missing box, the sheep - without her hanging up.
"I am terribly sorry, I really am. Everything's backed up in Panama. You know, the Ever Green thingy."
I thank her with what little breath I can muster and hang up the phone.
It's been almost a year since my initial order failed to arrive. I've been alone a long time.