Not the Package I Expected

Early morning, no return address. My first thought was letter bomb—had some jealous corner of the blog world finally moved from passive aggression to decisive action? I opened it one millimeter at a time, half-convinced my right hand was about to come off at the wrist. Which would be a real problem. I still need that hand.

It was a Gillette Venus. A women’s razor. Sent by Sara, a contestant from somewhere in Heidi Klum’s television orbit, apparently running some kind of promotional campaign. Not what I’ve been dreaming about since childhood—or maybe it is, I’m not cross-examining that—but a free item in the mail beats a press release every time. I’ll pass it along to Hannah; she’ll be well-prepared for the Kings of Leon show with Caro, which is more than I can say for the state I’m already in about that concert. Nintendo, Ferrari, Apple: this is how you make a person feel noticed. No pitch, no brief, just a box at the door before you’ve had coffee.