Prada Idiot Number One

I've never been accused of being a genius, but this time I think I've taken the moron cake. In my defense, however, several friends and readers weighed in on yesterday's mystery-package dilemma with the, "dead rodent in a box," answer, so I don't think I was being completely insane. It's all relative. This most recent incident is yet another reason I need to vacate the isle of Manhattan; it's apparently driving me clear over the edge. The ending to this story is so classically Stephanie, and so utterly true, that it's actually pitch perfect. I couldn't have fantasized a better conclusion.

The package sat in my hallway all-day yesterday. I went down, box in hand, to get Heather's perspective. She is just as paranoid/overly cautious as me, and knows what buffoons our doormen are. I showed her the package, the label, etc. She took it, while on the treadmill, shook it and then suggested I have the doorman open it for me.

"Oh, and ask Sam which messenger service it came from. They have to write that stuff down for safety reasons."

"But what if it's a bomb? As much as I dislike our doormen, I don't want to be responsible for killing them. I think I should just throw it away. I'm scared," I said.

"Don't throw it away," she said, then reconsidered. "On the other hand, what if it is one of your crazy readers and it's like a dead rodent or something? Maybe you should throw it away."

"Exactly what I was thinking. I'm going to go to the lobby, and if they don't have a record of who it's from, It's going in the garbage."

I went up to the lobby. I asked the doorman which messenger service it was from. He shrugged, bewildered, as if I were asking him for the formula for rocket fuel. Why didn't they write down who it was from, I asked? God fobid they should do their jobs once in a while. I swear, someone could deliver Hannibal Lecter on that restraining-board thingy and my doormen would sign for him/buzz him in. The UN my building is not. (On a related note, another of my dimwitted doormen, did, in fact, sign for the papers to my lawsuit while I was out of town. No biggie, right?)

"I'm a little nervous about opening this—there is no return address, you don't know who it was delivered by and I am not expecting a package," I said to Sam. The other doorman, much cooler and with some wits about him, was watching all this bemusedly.

"Oh, please," Sam said, rolling his eyes. "Want me to open it?" He asked, grabbing for the package.

"No! What if it's a bomb? I don't want to kill you."

"Oh, come on, a bomb," he snorted, in his thick, Brooklyn (?) accent. He grabbed the box out of my hand. I stepped back about ten feet. The other doorman was now raising his eyebrows and edging toward the front door. Sam tore into the package. I held my breath.

He pulled out a signature, silver box from Bergdorf Goodman. I started cracking up.

"Oh. My. God!" I screamed, losing it.

"Yeah," Steve said dryly, "This is the kind of bomb I'd like to get." He rolled his eyes and handed me back the Bergdorf's bomb. It was a gift card, from one of my parents' best friends. A belated birthday present. I was thisclose to throwing the box away.

I ran back downstairs to the gym, where Heather was awaiting the conclusion to the story, probably expecting me to walk in sans a limb or something. I held up the gift card, hysterical with laughter.

"SHUT UP!" She said. "Shut up! Only you, Steph, only you would this happen to."

"I know! Is this not the perfect ending to this story or what? You should have seen Sam's face. If he didn't think I was crazy already, now he's ready to call Bellevue."

"This is so perfect. And to think, you almost threw it away! You would have never known either."

"I know. Oh, God, people are really going to think I'm making this up. I cannot wait to tell my mom. She is going to absolutely die!"

I went upstairs, called mom and told her the story. She was dying. Again, in my defense, her friend did not tell her to tell me to expect a package, and mom had actually told me to throw the box away! Dad told me to open it, but that "maybe this would teach me a lesson not to write about such personal stuff." Fat chance. It's all material, and I don't even have to exaggerate. I spoke to the gift-giver today and relayed the whole saga to her.

"It's a good thing you are getting out of New York," she said. Indeed.

Thanks for the material, C & D, and thanks for the lovely gift!

I am headed out of town tomorrow, so no posts until Sunday or Monday. I have started packing, and my little codependent dog knows what this means all to well. So as I was on the computer this morning, I turned around and looked in my suitcase and found him curled up in there on top of my clothes. Love the way dogs think, "Maybe if I just curl up in here, mommy will not notice and take me with her!" Not so much; brother will be dog-and-rodent-sitting this weekend.