The funniest thing happened to me the other day. I was waiting on an overnight package from Orlando and three days later, I started to worry. I contacted the sender, who said there had been a mistake on the address and my package was returned to the receiving center in Daytona Beach, which is about 20 miles away. I remember that southeast Volusia County is considered a “rural area” compared to “big cities” like Orlando. I tracked my package through the email confirmation I received and found that it was delivered about an hour before in New Smyrna Beach. The driver left a comment, “Met customer woman,” and I knew immediately that something was wrong. After speaking with the customer service agent, I learned how another person with my full name, who lives less than ten blocks away, received my package because the address for my apartment building was one digit off. So, instead of stopping by the main office to ask if I lived in the complex, the driver took it upon himself to search for my name in the system and simply deliver the package to that person. Except, in this case, there are two people with the same name living in the same town. And I did end up meeting Jennifer Sheppard at the local grocery store to pick up my package, which she had opened, but that didn’t bother me. No, it was my phone number listed on the front in big, bold letters that really irked me. Why is it so hard for people to pick up the phone?
I was in Okeechobee this past weekend for a Hare Scrambles race and found a perfect corner to stop and snap a few photos during the 1 o’clock race.