There’s a commercial running on TV—I can’t even remember what it’s advertising—but it features a man on a cell phone trying to get through to his credit card company. Instead of punching in numbers in response to an automated question, he’s given instructions to say various things into the phone: his password, whether he wants a shinier credit card, etc. After what looks like many hours of this, our frustrated commercial hero finally gets through to a real person, only to lose the connection on his cell phone.

I thought it was a cute ad—though possibly too entertaining, as I can’t recall the company behind it—but at the same time, it seemed a bit exaggerated. Yes, we live in an automated world, but I’ve never been asked to scream my password (“big boy,” in the case of our poor commercial sap) into a crowd when trying to reach a company.

And then…

My husband and I purchased a piece of gadgetry via the Internet. Actually, he did. I just nodded and tried to look interested when he told me all about its fabulousness. So then, of course, this piece of fabulousness had to be delivered to our house. Since we both work outside the home, we weren’t there any of the three times they tried to deliver it. We didn’t sign for them to leave the package at the door because it’s an expensive piece of fabulousness.

At that point, our only option was to pick up our gadgetry at the delivery company’s local warehouse. Fine and well, but I didn’t know where that was, and my only link to it was the “800” number of the back of the we-tried-to-leave-your-package-but-you-weren’t-home sticky note left on our door.

And this is when I became the poor commercial sap I thought had been exaggerated. I was instructed to say the reason for my call, so, silly me, I did. Halfway through saying, “I need to find out where your local warehouse is located so I can pick up my package,” the automated voice came back on and told me that I’d be given a list of choices. Okay, I thought. I can pick from a list too.

But my question wasn’t an option on the list. I had to say something, though, so I picked what I thought was the closest—schedule a pick up—and hoped it connected me to a person so I could explain the real problem. But then the automated voice wanted me to give them my account number so they could come to my place of business and pick up my package.

I was frozen. This wasn’t anywhere close to being what I needed, there was no live person to talk to, and I definitely didn’t have an account number. After 10 seconds of silence on my end, the automated voice was back, telling me that she was sorry, but she couldn’t hear what I was saying. I waited it out again, hoping the second time she “couldn’t hear me,” I’d be sent to a live person. But I got the same message.

At this point, all I could think to do was hang up, call back, and try another option because “take me back to the main menu” also failed to make the list of choices. Once more, I picked something that had nothing to do with what I needed, and when I was prompted to tell them—again—what I wanted, I began banging the palm of my hand on my forehead and muttered in frustration, “son of a —.” The automated voice perked up and asked, “Did you say, ‘send overnight package?’”

Not exactly.

After getting absolutely nowhere, I called my husband to grumble, only to learn that he had somehow made it through the electronic maze earlier and had had the warehouse address all along.

Now, instead of smiling in amusement when I see that commercial, I nod and sigh sympathetically at “big boy’s” plight. TPW