Robert delivered the goods today.

They're all piled up nice and neat in big brown boxes just begging to be pawed through right now in my hallow-sounding guestroom. (Sans bed, since that was stolen from me earlier in the week by it's former owner who decided that, almost a year later, he wanted it back. I, was just nice enough to give it to him. Well, the matress anyway, he didn't take the frame. It's resting in my garage, where empty futon frames seem more at home then in half decorated guestrooms that are slowly losing furniture.) Just resting there like little treasure boxes, filled with all sorts of goodies for me to beam and cringe over. The magic of cardboard boxes! Big, small, tall, squashed, it dosen't matter what size, what's in them, (or if you already know what's in them because they belong to you), they always have some sort of deranged draw that makes your hands itch to open them up until, with a scary cry of glee, you give in. Boxes! Oh Boxes! How I love thee! I don't even care if you send me all the junk mail of every home in the Northwest, if it's in a box. There is just something about getting that taped-to-hell package with the little dirt smear and your name on it that makes everything peachy. It's a sickness, I think.


You know, I wouldn't last a day as a mail carrier.


So...the goods. 12 lovely boxes, big boxes, nice, big, square boxes, all sitting in my guestroom. And I don't even know what's in them! Well, I know what's in them, but I don't know whats in them. See, Robert brought me all his mothers old Avon stuff (12 boxes full) because he wants to take a stab at selling them on E-bay. So right now they're sitting all nice and cozy in my house to keep wayward hands (HA!) from digging/breaking/ect. them. (I don't plan on the braking or the ect part...and I'll dig carefully!) All of the Avon stuff is from the 60's and 70's and 99.9% of it is in it's packaging still. 98.9% of it is purfume bottles...and unfortunatly (fortunatly for collectors I guess...unfortunatly for me) they also still have all the purfume in them.


My guestroom (And, the back of Robert's truck!) smells like a dead French whore.


I, however, think that -and the wonderful stabbing headache I got from just being around the unopened boxes - is a small price to pay to be able to look at goodies. For now, anyway....ask me later, after I've gone through everything and I faint and have nightmares of dying a horrible slow death at the purfume counter of Pennies.