When someone comes into one of your stores with a package to mail to her sister, someone who she more than likely knows the address of, it is neither correct nor helpful to refer to an old, tattered book and then tell her that not only is she using the wrong ZIP code because her sister’s town only has one (FYI: It has seven), but that she has the entire address wrong because her sister’s street DOESN’T EVEN EXIST. Not only does that insult my sister’s intelligence, it makes me feel homeless. And unless you’re going to recoup the past six years of my mortgage payments from Suntrust for me, that is NOT COOL.
I’m going to go ahead and assume that the UPS clerk my sister had the unfortunate luck of dealing with that day was recovering from a brain aneurysm, because I don’t see how a major shipping company can instruct their clerks to fact-check addresses in a tome that was most likely printed during the height of the Pony Express.
Now, I’ve visited UPS stores before and never had anyone question my recipient’s address, so I’m also going to assume that it is just this particular suburban Chicago location that, for whatever reason, refuses to acknowledge the continued rapid growth of cities across the nation. Growth that yields new neighborhoods, streets and houses—all of which would render this dust-covered address-finding relic unusable and cost-prohibitive to update on any semblence of a regular basis.
All of this, UPS, to say that if my goddamn camera cord doesn’t make it to my house because you forced my sister to put the wrong ZIP code on the package and then tried to shame her into believing that the house she’s visited me in several times doesn’t actually exist, you’re going to have a seriously pissed-off woman on your hands.
Who, according to you, lives on a made-up street in a ZIP code that doesn’t exist. So good luck finding me after I egg your car, fuckface.
UPDATE: The package made it to my house. Consider yourself lucky, UPS.