I ran out to the mailbox in between innings of the Sox game and found a package stuffed in there.
Well ... you know me, readers. Or you should by now. I had not ordered anything.
So I gingerly carried the package, which had some bizarre return address from Georgia stamped on it - and then threw it in the sink. My heart was pounding. I pictured some kook in Newbury assembling a bomb, stamping a phony return address on an envelope and sticking an address label onto it.
Standing back as far as I could, I got a sharp knife and slashed it across the mailing address. It was one of those mailing envelopes with bubble wrap. Through the bubbles, I could see that it looked like it was a book.
Note: if you want to get me, send me a bomb disguised as a book. I eagerly ripped it open.
It was, indeed, a book. Ordered for me by my mother, the packing slip informed me. "Certain Girls," by Jennifer Weiner.
Cool. I've been wanting to read this. My mom is psychic.
I love getting books. I love books. Period.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
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6 comments:
Gillian,
Mentally ill mathematicians (see Unabomber) send bombs in the mail, all Newbury residents (ok maybe just Byfield) have guns, so they'd be more likely to "introduce you to Smith & Wesson".
Wow, that's the first thing you've ever said that even remotely hints at a slam on Newbury!
Was that a slam against Newbury - AKA Mayberry-by-the-Sea ? I thought I was just alerting you to a real danger.
I see you have glamorized your nickname.
But ... what's the deal with "alerting you to a real danger?"
Sorry, I meant paranoid perceived risk.....
I prefer satirical to glamorous...
Oh, I thought you were trying to impress me (or Mahatma) with your elevated status of living by the sea.
Thanks for clearing up the risk thing. I thought I'd have to start wearing a bullet-proof vest.
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