Did I Say That?: Joe Pisani’s home has become a nexus for lost packages

Joe Pisani found himself delivering the mail after other people’s packages were delivered to his home.

Joe Pisani found himself delivering the mail after other people’s packages were delivered to his home.

Joe Pisani /

I’ve been blessed. Or maybe cursed. Five times during the holiday season, I received wonderful gifts on the front door step, delivered by Amazon, FedEx, UPS and the U.S. Postal Service. There was one problem. They were for someone else.

What the heck are you people doing out there? Didn’t you ever hear of the Global Positioning System? Check addresses please. With all these fool-proof technologies, how can so many gifts be delivered to the wrong address and why does it have to be my house? If Santa can get it right, you can too.

It’s time for Jeff Bezos to take a billion out of this trillion-dollar bank account and buy Amazon some GPS gadgets that work...or better yet, invest in maps and magnifying glasses.

One day I got what I suspect was a woman’s retirement check in the mail, and she lived four miles away. But I forgave my mailwoman because she’s overworked.

A day later, I opened the door and saw a box on the step.

“There’s a package out here for you,” I said to my wife.

“It’s not for me. I didn’t order anything. It must be for you.”

“No, it’s NOT for me; I didn’t order anything either.”

“It has to be for you!” she insisted

Throughout this tense back-and-forth, the dog was barking like a lunatic, baring her fangs and scratching on the door to break it down because she hates packages, along with postal workers and any kind of delivery person. It must be some sort of canine virus because she shares this anger with every other mutt in the neighborhood.

I’m convinced the whole bunch of them should be sent for anger management at the dog obedience school. Whenever they hear a truck coming, a chorus of snarling and barking breaks out up and down the street.

My wife always has to restrain her, so I can bring in the boxes.

Two weeks ago, a package for my neighbor got delivered to our house, and the dog went after it with a vengeance. Oops! There was a Kate Spade handbag inside, and it may have gotten a few teeth marks on it. You’ve heard “My dog ate my homework,” but did you ever hear “My dog ate my pocketbook”?

The next day, the Amazon people came at 8:30 at night and delivered two boxes.

“There are packages here for you,” I yelled to Sandy.

“They must be yours!”

“They’re not!”

She held the dog, while I put on a trench coat over my pajamas — which is never a wise thing to do. The boxes were for another neighbor. As a good will gesture, I walked up the street to deliver them through a foot of snow in 20-degree weather in my slippers. Unfortunately, their dog is as crazy as ours, and I was sure he was going to crash through the storm door and go for my throat, or worse, my trench coat.

The next morning, there was yet another box on the doorstep with writing that said, “Meal Worms — NOT FOR HUMAN CONSUMPTION.”

“Sandra, your order of meal worms arrived!” I hollered.

“What the @%$)*#?! are you talking about?”

“Your meal worms! Didn’t you order this five-pound box of meal worms?”

She hadn’t. I’m thankful for that because I don’t want to think of what she’d do with five pounds of mealworms. Season the Bolognese?

The address label said it was for a fellow on the other side of town. I tried to call him, but he had an unlisted number, so I put on my trench coat and started my crosstown journey. My hunch was that the meal worms were alive...just in time for New Year’s dinner.

Somebody up there, PLEASE help us down here on Planet Earth! Are the GPS satellites malfunctioning or are people enjoying too much holiday recreational marijuana? I’m afraid of what will happen when Amazon introduces the new and exciting drone delivery system. With this track record, they’ll be crashing into telephone poles and ATM machines.

Joe Pisani can be reached at joefpisani@yahoo.com.