Last week, I found a magazine in the dollhouse mailbox, which was strange because I don’t have any subscriptions. After examining the address, I realized the postal carrier brought it to the right house number, but was one block too far north. Because it was Friday, and since my first three days back at work played me right out, I set it beside the dog food bin in the front porch and promptly forgot all about it. My original plan involved dropping it off at the correct house on a walk with Sherman some time soon.
When the Electrician found it tonight, and asked me if I’d ordered a magazine, and of course I answered in the negative. I gave him the six second summary of my plan for the neighbour’s mail and felt a little guilty that it’s been in my front porch for four days. I also explained how I thought it would be nice to take the mail over and meet some more of the folks in my neighbourhood. He giggled.
“Sweetie, you do realize this is a dirty magazine,” he said, grinning.
“A what?” I responded, half listening while I dealt with blog stuff on the couch.
“A nudie magazine, like Playboy or something,” he continued, stepping out of the porch into the living room, magazine aloft.
“Really? How do you know that?” The situation was more interesting than I originally thought.
“Only dirty magazines come wrapped in black plastic. Look.”
He held the magazine, still wrapped of course, up to the bright overhead light in the porch. Through the white part of the wrapper, where the address that is not mine was printed, we saw…there were –well, this is a family show, so suffice it to say the women on the cover of that magazine had more experience with wax than those ladies who sell Partylite candles.
Imagine me tomorrow evening, strolling one block south with Sherman, enjoying the summer evening. Lawnmowers rumble in a few yards in my little neighbourhood, and squirrels scamper about, collecting supplies to see them though the winter. Picture me grinning, knocking until the door of the house that doesn’t quite share my address opens. I thrust my hand forward, offering the nudie magazine in its black raincoat to the person in the doorway.
“Hello, pervert,” I’ll say in my usual chipper tone. “This was delivered to my house by mistake. Happy, um, reading.”
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