So, yesterday, as I’m walking out the door for the big blogger meet-up, my phone rings and a woman is all, “Is this Aunt B.?” and I say, “Yes,” and she says, “Okay, this is weird, but I’m calling every Aunt B. in the phone book on the off chance you used to live out here at [her address].”
“Yeah, I did. Like five years ago.”
“Whew. Okay. I think I have some Christmas presents for you.”
“Yeah, FedEx left them. I just wanted to see if maybe you were still in town and could come get them or if I should just send them back to FedEx.”
“No, wow. How really nice of you! Do you mind if I send my brother out to get them?”
“Nope. I’ll have them just inside the door. He can just knock.”
“Okay, how will you know it’s him?”
“Well, I bet he’s the only white dude that’ll be knocking on my door this evening looking for Christmas presents.”
“I hope so, anyway.”
“Well, I’ll just say this, first white guy to my door is getting your presents. I’m not going to do interviews.”
“Fair enough. Listen, thanks again. That was really kind of you to call.”
“No problem. Merry Christmas.”
So, the Butcher goes clear out to Donelson to get the boxes, which are clearly for us–“Aunt B.-The Butcher” right on the label. But no indication of who they’re from. Two boxes full of food and hot chocolate and a Christmas CD and no mention of who the sender is.
Now, it’s clearly got to be one of my mom’s sisters. Everything about it seems like them. Fabulous present? Check. Some weird hangup about it getting delivered? Check. No indication of who sent it? Check.
But which one?