I receive a lot of prescription medication by mail, like all of it. And one of those medications I have to sign for since it’s one of those controlled medications (da-da-da-dum!!) and there has to be due signature in acknowledgement of receipt, etc, etc.

Now just a little background here.

Our back door bell is one of those modern wireless types that consists of a transmitter box that hangs outside on the door frame (it has the “doorbell” button on it) and 3 plug-in receivers (the “bells”) that we have plugged into various outlets inside the house. A visitor pushes the “doorbell” at the back door and the receivers make a “bing-bong” sound inside the house. This works fine as long as we change the battery in the transmitter at least once a year.

The front door bell however is one of those old fashioned, 50 year old wired types that never, ever fails as long as the power is on but for some reason the original owners never wired one for the back door or was perhaps removed during remodeling and never put back.

Okay, so…

Normally this is very quick and smooth process due to the efficiencies of two things. First, the very dependable, reliable and commonsensical young lady that is my mail carrier who comes to the back door (where all packages are supposed to be delivered) and pushes our modern wireless “doorbell” and my high tech hearing aids that allow me to hear the doorbell when she rings it.

From there it’s a  simple routine which involves me smiling at my mail carrier in which she smiles back (a very nice smile too–even with the braces), her handing me that post card sized, orangish colored paper that I sign, me signing and handing the duly signed paper back to her and her handing me the package containing my medication. This ends with more smiling at each other (she really does have a nice smile) and the whole routine is concluded.

Very quick and efficient. In fact, it took me more time to write the previous paragraph than it takes to complete the above process from start to finish. Probably less than 2 minutes all told minus talking about the weather. Then, yesterday, modern technology failed me.

First, the wireless doorbell apparently went out for lunch or was having a nice snooze when my mail carrier stopped by with my medication. No matter what the reason, the high tech, wireless doorbell failed to ring so all I ended up with was that post card sized, orangish colored paper shoved through the mail slot in the front door stating that I had missed the boat, that my medication was on it’s way back to the post office and that I could pick it up after 2:00 pm.

I wasn’t really that upset at this since it gave me a chance to get my butt out of the house for a bit and, as my father used to eloquently put it ; “Blow the stink out of my britches”. Besides, it was just a matter of going down to the post office, signing the post card sized of orangish paper, handing it to the post master and him/her handing me my package of medication, right?

Well, wrong.

I arrived at the post office without mishap and was happily surprised to see that I was not only the only customer in the place but there was actually someone manning the counter as well. This ought to be a breeze, I’m thinking.

So I placed myself at the counter, explained to him about how I missed the mail carrier due to a faulty doorbell and could I have my package now please? Since I figured all I had to do was to sign my name as usual and hand him the post card sized, orangish colored paper, I proceeded to take out my pen and was about to sign on the appropriate line when he reached out and took the paper from me.  He then proceeded to explain that there was no need to sign the post card sized, orangish piece of paper now that I was here since there was a much simpler way to do this using technology.

So off to the back he goes in search of my medication. By and by he comes back around with package in hand and lays it on the counter in front of me.  My, that was simple.

Alas, I was premature in my thinking as the post office guy began poking at his screen (obviously one of those touch screen types – high technology indeed) and eventually pointed at the electronic thing-a-ma-bob that was mounted on the counter to the left of me.

“Sign there, please”, he said.

So I took the pen that was provided for such things that just happened to be laying on the counter to my right-hand side. This was attached by one of those pen-lanyards that was not quite long enough to reach the electronic thing-a-ma-bob on my left without having to lay the pen over until it was almost horizontal.

Since holding a pen on it’s side is not what you might call a natural position for signing one’s name, you might understand it when I say that signing my name required some rather unique hand contortions. But eventually I succeeded in putting down a signature that a specialist would have been proud of.

After massaging the cramp out of my right hand I reached for my package and almost had it when Mister Post Person poked his screen a bit more and told me I had to write my address down on the electronic thingy as well.  For verification purposes you understand.  This, of course, required more painful hand contortions that I was simply not prepared to tolerate. So I took the anchored pen in hand once again and slowly but surely broke it in half unscrewed the thing until I was only holding the front half of the pen one hand (no cartridge in this type of pen mind you) and tossed the anchored end back where it came from with the other.

I wrote my address on the electronic thing-a-ma-bob, tapped OK, took up my package in a death grip and gently but firmly put the front half of the broken unscrewed pen back down on the counter.  I gave him a smile and took my leave–package in hand.

Sometimes modern technology just doesn’t cut it.