But last night, I was mad. We're talking rip-roaring pissed.
OK, maybe I'm still a little hot.
Because after having a good evening as a guest speaker for my film coach, Van Brooks, and his audition class (I blogged about it, but it seems to have gotten lost in the ether), I went back to my old house to confront the people there.
(For those needing closure, I did, indeed, sell my old house. Which I take to be proof that God loves me, does not want me in unreasonable debt, and will even deign to work with real estate agents on my behalf.)
Anyway, I'd ordered a number of things that never showed up. After tracking them for a couple of weeks, I found out that they'd been misdelivered to my old place. Misdelivered and never returned.
The first few times I called the new owners, they'd hang up when I said who I was. Finally, they answered, and said I could come by pick up the things.
So last night I show up to pick up my stuff, and I see the home owners look at me through the shades, then close them. I knocked several times before they had their daughter answer the door with my packages.
The packages had been opened.
They had used or tried to use my stuff. I had a set of anniversary pens BigHugeCorp sent to me, and they had fingerprints all over them. I had some stuff specific to the new house that they couldn't use, but they'd opened the box and unpackaged everything and tried to use it.
I am so disappointed.
They sent their daughter, because they didn't have the character to face me themselves.
Worse? They're an American minority about which there are some negative stereotypes, a minority which is a big part of my own ethnic heritage.
If you don't like stereotypes about your ethnicity, don't be a freaking stereotype!
I can't get my head around trying to steal other people's stuff.
I'm still kind of hot about this.