You know, I would like to have one week go by where nothing goes fucking wrong. ONE WEEK. Let me tell you about U-Haul.
I’m moving, tomorrow as a matter of fact, so last week I reserved a van from the U-Haul that’s right between where I’m moving from and where I’m moving to. It’s going to be an insane day, it’s going to be 95 degrees out, and due to certain shit events and certain money issues, I’m doing it more or less by myself. In addition to moving out of my house I have to go by another place and pick up a bed frame, and then go by yet another place to get a box spring. I had everything set up so it would all work out in the least amount of time and with the least amount of stress possible. And then I sat back and relaxed, knowing that at least this one thing was handled.
This morning I get a message from U-Haul, telling me that there are no vans available for tomorrow at the 4th Avenue location, and that I would have to go to 65th street instead. For those of you unfamiliar with Brooklyn, this is about 40 miles away. And U-Haul charges you $2/per mile that you drive. Interestingly enough, I wasn’t even booked at 4th avenue in the first place, I was booked at 5th avenue. Which is about a mile from my house and three miles from where I’m moving to. Which is in fact why I fucking booked it there. So I called the 65th street location only to find out that they’d booked me in the wrong place to begin with, and then overbooked themselves so there were no vans available to me. This shit is funny when it happens on Seinfeld, not so funny in real life.

The 65th street location told me they couldn’t do anything on their end about finding out why I wasn’t booked at 5th avenue. So I called the 5th avenue location. I explained the situation, was put on hold for 20 minutes, and then disconnected. So I called back. I explained the situation to someone else, was put on hold and instantly disconnected. I called back, and by this point I’m fuming- I had gone outside at lunch to lie in the sun and relax a bit, and instead I get this- and asked to speak to a manager. There’s no manager at this location, ma’am. So I tell the bitch that I’ve called twice now and been disconnected, and can I please just speak to someone who can help me. And she gets this very put-upon, sort of DMV-mentality tone in her voice and goes “no ma’am, because there are other customers we need to help” and before I can say anything (which would have been along the lines of go fuck your mother) she puts me on hold. Again. I’m on hold for another fifteen minutes. So by this point I’ve used up pretty much all my cell minutes for the month and I’ve probably gone over. But hey, is that U-Haul’s problem? No, in fact nothing seems to be their problem.
So after that fifteen minutes of waiting I gave up and hung up and then screamed a bit, and then called back at 65th street, where they at least answered their phones and seemed to have some vestigial lizard-brain intelligence. I explained the situation and asked if there was a head office number I could call. Which there was, so I called it. And explained the situation to the man there. And was told that there was nothing he could do, he didn’t know why they’d booked me in the wrong place to start with but it wouldn’t matter, since there were no vans available ANYWHERE in brooklyn except for 65th street. At this point I asked him if the entire reservation and confirmation process was just a pointless sham, to which he replied “no ma’am, you have a van, it’s just at 65th street instead of 5th avenue.” So I asked him why I’d bothered reserving the pickup location and he said “sometimes these things happen.” The little rancid shithead. So I explained to him the fact that I would then have to drive for 80 miles rather than 8, and be charged for those miles, even though it was U-Haul’s error. And his response was “so do you want me to cancel the reservation?” Yes, I want you to cancel the reservation, motherfucker, and then I want to put your head on a pike.

So, to recap. The move is tomorrow. I’ve got one girl waiting for me to come buy her bed, one other girl waiting for me to buy her box spring, and one mover booked for 11 o’clock. And I have to be out of my place, and I have no van.

After calling eleven places on craigslist I managed to find a van available that I could –barely- afford, and everything is now sorted out. I am beyond furious. I’m going to repost this on Consumerist(edited for coherence and personal bitchiness) and I’m reporting them to the Better Business Bureau, and I might just write to Elliot Spitzer. Hell, he’s up for reelection, he could use the publicity.

Everyone has a limit on how much dicketry they can cope with, and I have just hit mine. I have been fucked around an awful lot lately, it seems, and I am not taking this shit anymore. This was the ONE thing I had completely sorted out, and then this little shithead drone with the IQ of mayonnaise apparently can’t even do the simplest of jobs. I want to be reimbursed for the difference between the U-Haul van and the van I had to rent last minute (for which I am being scalped harder than a Radiohead ticket), I want to be reimbursed for the seventy minutes I spent on hold on my cell phone, and while I’m at it I might just sue the fuckers for emotional trauma and breach of contract.

THESE PRETZELS. ARE MAKING ME THIRSTY.

Someone in Canada is reading this blog. I'm not sure why I find that so ominous, but I do.


Only two more weeks and then I'll have home access again....and I gotta tell you, schlepping to the computer cafe like some sort of Industrial-Age pleb has GOT to end. Even though this did lead directly to my finding and purchasing an antique mahogany writing desk. I'll tell you about that later.
Also, and I really hate to be predictable, but fuck me it is HOT. Being outside is like wading through stew. Or...no, I'll tell you what it's like. Picture that guy, in your office or mineshaft or collective or wherever it is that you work...you know that guy, he's overweight and judging from his sartorial choices doesn't KNOW he's overweight, and he sweats all the time, big beady cartoon sweat, and he has to breathe through his mouth because all the folds of neckfat press down on his pharynx and make nose-breathing difficult, so when he breathes it's that really moist, overheated, gurgling noise? Ok. Being outside right now is like standing directly in front of his mouth as he breathes. I so heart New York. Blech.

Oh, Zizou, why?? Come over here and let me...comfort you.
More later.