Paranoia and suspicious deliveries

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flowers boxI guess it’s time for us to put on our tinfoil hats and run off to the woods, because I’ve just realized we may be the teensiest bit paranoid.

I’ve jokingly called George “Captain Safety” for years, because he’s extremely thorough about gathering information and providing proper personal protective equipment for any given situation he may be in. (Except for the time I caught him in the driveway with our eight-year-old daughter making a gasoline-soaked toilet paper fuse that led to a giant pile of assorted fireworks – but after 20 years or so, I’ve almost forgiven him for it.)

I sometimes feel sorry for the agents he talks to about loads – he’s the guy who is going to ask every conceivable question you could think of – and that’s awesome in his professional life, but he has a habit of letting it bleed over into our personal conversations at home. And sometimes, he drives me crazy by asking a barrage of questions about something I don’t know anything more about than he does.

When a box showed up from 1-800-FLOWERS last week, addressed to George Parker, his questions started.

“What is it?”

“Well hell, babe, I don’t know. It’s in a box.”

“Who sent it?”

“I’m sure that information is also contained within the box.”

“Where did it come from?”

“Well…the box has 1-800-FLOWERS plastered all over it, so I’m assuming it came from 1-800-FLOWERS.”

“I don’t mean that, I mean where did it originate? What state?”

“Hi, my name is Wendy and I was standing right here when the box was delivered. When I say, ‘I don’t know,’ it means, I don’t know. I have no idea where it came from, or who sent it. You should probably open it to find all that information out.”

“I don’t want to open it. I don’t know where it came from.”

“Seriously, guy? You expecting anthrax or something? Just open it.”

“Oh wait, here’s a bill of lading on the front…. Let’s see what it says.”

“Uh, I think it’s called a ‘get well card,’ not a bill of lading…”

“Babe, I know that, I was being funny.”

To which I wanted to respond, “If you have to explain it, it’s not funny anymore,” but I was dying to see what was in the box, so for the sake of time, I just went with it and laughed.

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Turns out our friends over at DAS and RoadPro sent a nice little plant and teddy bear to cheer George up during his recovery, but if you had been watching us from afar, circling the package like uneasy Basset hounds, you’d have thought it was a bomb – or something equally as unpleasant. I’m not sure if it’s a reflection of the times we live in, or a blatant example that we’re crazy as hell, but according to George, you can never be too careful. (Unless you’re building a fireworks pyre with an eight-year-old and gasoline… I said I’d almost forgiven him for it – “almost” being the operative word here.)