I needed one of those 9×12 manila envelopes with the clasp closing, you know the ones I’m talking about, and there wasn’t a single one in our entire house. Those of us who do not work in offices where we can permanently borrow one (let’s be honest) must go out and purchase them, and I say ‘them’ because you can’t really buy a ‘one’. Staples had a package of 12 for $5.99 and even though it was 11 more than I had a use for, there didn’t seem much choice. Except that right next to the packs of 12 were boxes of 100 with the sign underneath saying $8.99. Hmmm. For only $3 more I could have 99 I had no use for. I’m telling you, I would probably buy a barrel of brussels sprouts if it was cheaper than the pint.
I took both size items to the cashier and asked her to verify the prices. She confirmed with her barcode scanner that they were correct.
OSV: Wow. So twelve of them are six dollars but one hundred are nine dollars?
CASHIER: That’s right. That’s what the system says.
OSV: It seems strange, doesn’t it?
She shrugged, like, whatever. We stood there looking at each other.
CASHIER: Well, which one do you want?
OSV: I’ll take the better deal.
CASHIER: Which is that?
OSV: Um, the box.
I gave her a ten, she gave me change, and as she handed me the bag a light came on in her eyes and she said, “You know, you’re right, that doesn’t really make sense.” I asked her if she wanted to go check with a manager because I didn’t want her to get in trouble for undercharging. She shrugged again and said, “Nah.” We did the have a nice day thing and I left.
The next day I visited Daughter in the city for a lunch date and handed her around thirty 9×12 envelopes when she answered her door.
DTR: And these are for. . . ?
OSV: You. Because I love you.
DTR: Okay then. Thanks, Mom.
It was a beautiful spring day so we walked over to Madison Square Park to see the wild new art installation Event Horizon by British artist Antony Gormley that features 31 lifesize fiberglass statues on the streets and rooftops. It was startling, as advertised.
As we cruised past the newsstands on our way down to the Village, I noticed many of the headlines were about actress Sandra Bullock’s husband, Jesse James, checking himself into a rehab center for sex addiction. This is a disturbing trend wherein hound dog husbands attempt to disguise their misogyny toward their wives in a veil of illness. They seem pretty healthy until they get caught in an affair and a dozen other mistresses surface, a la Tiger Woods. Then they whimper about being unable to control themselves, and I might actually believe their defense as sex addicts if any of the women they had sex with were ugly.
Daughter’s Featured Fotos go All Around The Offbeat Town