BIrthday pretzels!

Pretzel story: my friend Jess sent me these for my birthday. They were supposed to come two-day shipping, so I would have gotten them Friday. She texted, wanted to know if I'd gotten them. Nope. Since I live in an apartment and it's not a walk-up, the process is for the UPS man to check the call box (I'm not in there because they wouldn't put an out-of-state number in the box and I'm not changing the cell phone number I've had for a zillion years), and then to leave a sticky note on the glass door with my name and apartment number on it, telling me that the package is in the apartment office. Then I take the sticky note over to the office, with a picture ID, and they have a book with the deliveries (which are locked in a closet) written down - when they came in, how they came in (USP, USPS, etc), the name and apartment of the person. If it's on the list, they get it out of the closet, check your ID, you sign, they give it over.

My friend Jess calls UPS and they tell her it didn't get on the right truck, it's going to be late. She, of course, is pissed. It's HOT, those are CHOCOLATE, she's picturing disaster. They tell her it won't make it to me until Monday and she raises hell and they agree to send a fresh one - once this one gets here.

Monday comes and she calls me - gives me the time of delivery and the name of the person who signed for it. I look for the door sticky and it's not there, but when I actually go out into the lobby, it's sitting on the floor. So I stick it in  my notebook and write down the name of the person and blah, blah, blah. But I have school on Monday nights, and I didn't want to traipse over to the office myself and be confronted with a box that was too big for me to carry home (it's a long story, but I can't carry things with both hands, my right arm is not fully functional). Tuesday I forgot about it, we took Liam to the park when Tim got home, made fajitas, and watched the Olympics. Wednesday Tim was off and I was going to spend most of the day studying and then meeting a friend, and then studying some more. So he goes to the office for the package, then comes to pick me up that evening. He tells me there was a package in the office, but it was my contributor's copy of Suzi's book, NOT the box from my friend. Well, my friend had called UPS, confirmed the delivery, and given me a name to yell at if I needed to.

6:44 Wednesday evening, we go to the office. The sign says "open". The hours posted are 10A-7P. The doors are locked. There are people inside. I pull out my phone to call and make a fuss (embrace the mayhem)  when the girl who is supposed to be inside, helping the boy who is obviously on his day off and there to give her a hand, walks up. She lets us in, with an attitude. I explain the deal. She opens the book and points to the page where Tim's signature clearly says he's picked up a package that was delivered Monday. I tell her again that he picked up a package, but NOT the one that I know is there. Instead of looking for the actual package, she pages through EVERY piece of paper in that book, determined to prove me wrong. RIDICULOUS. She finally opens the closet and looks for the box, and it's RIGHT THERE.

So I rip it open on the seat of the car, preparing to take pictures for my angry friend so she can send them to UPS, and here is what I found:

Look at that! Perfection:

The cold packs were still cold! How great is that?? They're super tasty, too. Worth the wait!