So Ned Hickson sent me a book. I didn’t have any of my books left to send him, so we cut a deal. I received my book, which is delightful. Wait, “delightful” is too girly a word for Ned. I need to think of a better word. But that’s Ned-er here nor there. Instead, here’s what happens when I fulfilled my end of the bargain.
The afternoon started out like any other: leave the office, walk two blocks home, pass through our white picket gate toward the front steps, then holler “EVERYBODY STAY IN THE HOUSE” while dropping into an army crawl. Naturally, no one at home had any interest in coming outside until I yelled for them NOT to — at which point three of our children and both dogs attempted to squeeze through the doorway simultaneously, closely resembling a horde of diarrhea sufferers trying to de-board a subway car for the last working restroom.
“STOP!” I commanded, freezing them all — yes, even the dogs — on the porch, just inches away from a small white package with the word Liquid written in several places in black marker. The name on the return address wasn’t one I immediately recognized. The fact that it was from a foreign country (Canada) made it even more…
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