There, underneath the bank of mailboxes is a carton, a delivery. The presence of the carton doesn't come as a surprise as there are eight other families in my building and there is often one delivery or another. I approach my own mailbox, insert the key, and remove the contents all the while checking out the name on the carton.
Bust my buttons, it is MY name on the carton! I hadn't ordered anything and when I do, I rarely choose my home address as the delivery option. I bend to pick up the box, all the while scanning the mental Rolodex of possibilities. Who has shipped me a s-u-r-p-r-i-s-e?
The excitement builds as I scamper (ok, not quite scamper) up the stairs. Once inside the unit I greet the fur babies, head back to my room, drop my bag and my pants--to change into shorts. Damn, it's HOT. Out to the kitchen to grab a glass, fill it with ice and then water, all the while my mind is spinning about what might be in the carton.
A few sips (ok, gulps) of water later, I address the carton, work the tape, finding it stubborn. I scan the area for scissors, a knife. Ah, KEYS.
Finally the tape is removed and the flaps un-flapped and inside . . .
The best belly laugh I've had all week.
You see there is a study being conducted. I'd forgotten I had agreed to participate. The instructions that came with the packages directed me to PLEASE START USING THE TOILET TISSUE IMMEDIATELY And so, I removed the packages from the box, carried them to the bathroom, removed one roll, stored the others, and re-placed the current selection, with the study selection. The research has begun.