Mail call
The other day James and I came home to a package on our doorstep. We hadn’t ordered anything, so we were mystified.
But it had my mother’s handwriting on the label.
We open it and there’s a package for each of us, wrapped in tissue paper with our names written on it. A note said that Mom thought they were fun and hoped we enjoyed them.
We rip them open and find two books: For him, “Well Groomed,” by Peter Scott; for me, “Zen Bride,” by Nora Cabrera.
Mine is a kit that includes lavendar bath salts, candle (which James is burning sorta maniacally as I type) and room spray with a sleep mask (and a book). I squealed when I saw the sleep mask. I’ve been looking for one for the last few weeks. James likes to read in bed, but either stays up reading until 2 a.m. or falls asleep immediately without turning the light off. I don’t sleep well with the light on, so I thought a mask might help.
James is delighted with his book and immediately starts reading me the chapter titles: “How Can a Magazine Cost $12.95 and Not Have Pictures of Naked People in It?” and “Why Are You and Your Mom Acting Like Rival Street Gangs?” The subtitle of the book is “A Wedding Planner for What’s-His-Name (And His Bride).”
He hasn’t really dived into it yet (he says he wants to finish the book he’s reading first — nevermind that he routinely has about 12 books he’s in the middle of), but he sneaks a look between the covers now and then, laughs, and says, “I can’t wait to read this book.”
