They're up to something. We must prepare.

On Thanksgiving Day my parents sent me white roses. Nice of them. I called to thank them. Nice of me. And my mother informed me that I should watch the mail, because I would receive a large package, my Christmas Present, soon.

Did you all experience the same shudder of foreboding just now?

First issue: Christmas present. Singular. Now I'm not usually so petty come Christmas time, but this year I NEED things, because I cannot buy them for myself. I have one item of tupperware, for instance. I do not own a sharp kitchen knife. I no longer own a serviceable pair of proper winter shoes. I haven't gotten a hair cut (unless you count voluntary pulling out) since May. I'm not even talking about the things that would be just lovely to have, like subscriptions to literary magazines or copies of books I've been coveting. I NEED THINGS.

Second issue: What the hell could it be? What are they forcing on me? The imagination runs quite amok, I tell you.

I think, maybe, they could be sending me an albatross. Perhaps a dead one. That would be symbolic. And until I make my peace with them I have to wear it around my neck...

Or, possibly, it could be this rather inconveniently sized bookshelf that I left behind when I moved. Worse, this big trunk of my grandmother's, the size and weight of a full coffin.

The problem, I think, lies in the term, large package. How large is large, mother? Bigger than a bread box? Smaller, I hope, than a coffin? HAVE YOU SEEN MY APARTMENT??? Okay, it's roomier than the last one, but I still don't have room for anything large. I just upgraded to a queen-sized bed this year, which leaves me with just enough room to crack my elbow against my bedroom door when I flail out of bed in the morning.

More likely they've bought me a computer, despite my numerous protests, and I will set it up on the far side of my bed, in lieu of a desk, and I'll never have to leave my apartment EVOR again.

Fear of all fears - they've somehow managed to buy me a car and they're being cute about the "package" thing.


This afternoon I did a double-take on my way out the door. There was a package for me in the foyer. During the uninformative phone call, my mother told me she was sorry that she couldn't gift-wrap said item and I am allowed to open it before Christmas. She made it sound like it would come straight from a store or something. This package had labels with her handwriting. I took it upstairs and ripped at the paper. It was white on the outside, printed with white roses on the inside. Clever. The box was nearly weightless but there was a "Fragile" sticker on it. ("Frah-jee-lay... is that Italian, honey?") The giftbox inside was printed with a fancy country-store style insignia. "Oh god," thought I, "it's something porcelain and touching." But it was so light! Maybe it was a check! I pulled aside the clouds of white tissue paper in a frenzy, dreaming of actually Christmas shopping in STORES this year, rather than smushing together sad craft projects.

What did all of my frenzy reveal?

A bow.

A red, velveteen bow with green christmas trees silkscreened on and gold glitter here and there. It's a nice bow, as bows go. Someone had pinned a small gift card, which was inexplicably crumpled, to a christmas tree. "Put this on your gift before you open it. - Mom and Dad. Lots of love." (Yes, that was the order of the message.)

It's coming. The Present. It could be in a FedEx truck as we speak. Slowly, it approaches, biding it's time, dreaming of the day it will finally arrive in my foyer and fulfill it's sick destiny. I live in terror.


A footnote - I also live in terror as I await the day when my brother Cripps passes on this blog's address to my parents. I blame the Imholt sisters.