Is That A Knife In Your Pocket or Are You Just Wishing Me A Happy Holiday?

'Tis the season for strange men to buzz your door at all hours of the night.

Oh. That sounds scandalous. If only.

I'm skipping Christmas with my family in Rhode Island this year because, well, isn't traveling for the holidays the worst? You know how poorly treated chickens are shoved into cages by the hundreds without room to move until they're plump enough to have their throat slit for your shish kebobs? That's exactly what Penn Station feels like during the holiday season. Packed to the gills with locals and tourists alike who don't give a damn about your personal space and will happily crush your throat to reach the gate ahead of anyone the nanosecond it's announced.

In addition to insurmountable self-generated guilt, this led to a series of packages shipped to and from Rhode Island. OK, really just from my mother to me since her entire wish list consists of books on Kindle. I plan to shop for her when I roll out of bed Christmas morning.

Last night, a Saturday night, I stayed in to make dinner and bake; and consequently eat; an entire pumpkin pie alone. It's cool, pumpkin is a vegetable. And alone is the only way to eat an entire pie.

One third of the way through the pie, around 9:25pm, my door buzzer sounds off. Not the typical half-second buzzzz. Or your lesser implemented buzz-buzz. Instead, a seven-second hold:


Menacing. Creepy, even.

In the split second it took for me to put down the remaining two-thirds pie to cross the room towards the buzzer, it went off again:


I had to wait for this bastard to release the button before I could respond via the panel on my wall.

"Who is it?!"
"Fezesz liverie."

Are you or do you have a teenager? Teach them to speak with their whole f*cking mouth because this gave me a bad vibe. Nonetheless, I understood this to mean FedEx, delivery.

I pressed the DOOR button to give this overzealous button-pressing marble mouth access to my apartment building, because my desire for fun mail outweighs my need for safety.

Already in my pajamas; a paper-thin NASA Space Camp t-shirt and shorts, just the wardrobe for a slain character actor in her thirties playing a high school girl; I brought my Shun paring knife with me to the door. Like a Ginsu, but available at Bed Bath & Beyond.

It's no surprise that when he reached my apartment he rang the doorbell five times in rapid succession. I would not tolerate this tormenting OCD shit.

I opened the door a crack; it was a young guy wearing jeans and a plain black hoodie, not your typical FedEx uniform, holding an unmarked box. I gripped my 3.5" knife designed "to cut cleanly and efficiently through a multitude of foods" or human flesh if necessary.

"Are you Jonathan?" mumbling my husband's name.
"Yes." I replied deadpan, "I am Jonathan."

He shoved the box through the threshold, turned, and walked away without another word.

Happy Holidays, readers.