One Firearm Per Box


1339349745389Jsf stack of boxes

Phone rings.

Mitzi: What’s up?

Mark (husband): They shipped your stereo system to the office. It’s stacked in the conference room and I need you to drive down with the Bronco and load up the boxes.

Mitzi: Why was it shipped to the office? I don’t remember giving the service rep your work address.

Mark: I don’t know. But I need it out of here. I have clients coming in and it’s taking up all the space in the conference room.

Mitzi: Why didn’t you ask if they could redeliver the boxes to our house? It has to be a mistake.

Mark: Marilyn (seventy-two year old receptionist) signed for the boxes while I was out. Why are you making this so difficult?

Mitzi: The last time we got something delivered by a courier, the box had a gaping hole in it. I hope Marilyn didn’t sign without making sure the boxes were intact.

Mark: Are you picking them up or not?

* * * * * * * * * *

Fifteen minutes later

Mitzi: Oh, my God. Look at all these boxes.

Mark: You’re the one that wanted the total stereo package.

Mitzi: The boxes weigh a ton. I hope everything fits in the Bronco. The electrician’s won’t be at the house for a couple of months. Where am I going to store all these boxes?

Mark: In the garage.

Mitzi: I can’t store my stereo system in the garage. It could be stolen.

Mark: Like someone can’t break into the house and steal it?

* * * * * * * * * *

Two months later, I’m vacuuming around the boxes in the living room when the phone rings.

Mitzi: I hope you’re not working late tonight. I’m cooking one of your favorite dishes.

Mark: You aren’t going to believe this.

Mitzi: I hate when people start a conversation like that. What happened?

Mark: I have two police cars following me through town. I’m headed home.

Mitzi: What?

Mark: I was sitting in my office when Marilyn knocked on my door. She said there were four police officers in the waiting room and they wanted to talk to me.

Mitzi: Are our kids okay?

Mark: Everyone is fine.

Mitzi: You won’t be if you don’t get to the point.

Mark: They wanted to know where their rifles were.

Mitzi: Rifles?

Mark: I told them I didn’t even own a firearm.

Mitzi: And?

Mark: They said they traced the rifles to the office. That’s when I remembered the shipment Marilyn signed for. I told them our stereo system was shipped to the office over two months ago and that you took the boxes up to the house.

Mitzi: Thanks. I’ve always wanted to be handcuffed and taken to the police station for a mug shot. Didn’t you look at the labels on the box?

Mark: No. I assumed it was the stereo system. Did you check the labels?

Mitzi: No. I assumed you knew what you were talking about. We just proved that the first three letters in the word assume spells ass.

Mark: We’ve never had a gun in our house and now we may have more firepower than all the citizens in town combined.

Mitzi: Your office is a good two miles from the police station. How could anyone confuse those two addresses? The police don’t think we’d keep the guns on purpose, do they?

Mark: They were stoned faced . . . and I do have two cop cars following me up the hill.

Mitzi: Where are you now?

Mark: Heading up B Street. Why?

Mitzi: I have to hang up and touch-up my makeup. (Obviously, my husband didn’t know that it’s a job requirement for all policemen, firemen, and medics to look “hot”).

* * * * * * * * * *

Five minutes later four officers enter the house.

Mark: The boxes are in the living room.

Officers frantically cut the inconspicuous cardboard boxes open.

Good-looking police officer: Looks like we found all our rifles.

Mark: Mitzi, your mouth is open.

Mitzi: This experience gives a whole new meaning to our Bang & Olufsen surround sound system.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Granted, this took place over eight years ago, but the controversy over new gun laws got me thinking. Perhaps we should all start checking the shipping labels before signing the delivery confirmation slip and help courier companies implement a better tracking system.


About Mitzi McColley Sorensen

Mitzi McColley Sorensen grew up surrounded by the Black Hills in Hot Springs, South Dakota. Her father was a second generation funeral director. Death was as much a part of her everyday life as breathing. She attributes her quirky sense of humor, viewing life as a gift, and placing family first to her upbringing. After attending Northern State College in South Dakota, she headed west with her husband to live with her beloved grandmother who was suffering with Alzheimer’s. They stayed in California where they raised three daughters and a son. For the past twenty-eight years, Petaluma, California has been her home where rolling vineyards replaced the majestic views of Mt. Rushmore. Working her way up the ranks in a pharmacy, Mitzi learned that the customer was always right, the benefits of most drugs outweighed the possible side effects, and that her male clients mellowed with age. Mitzi befriended an individual that experienced synesthesia in her everyday life. Although the main character in THE TASTE OF ORANGE is fictional, her symptoms mirror that of her friend’s. Retired after twenty plus years, Mitzi enjoys writing novels, traveling, reading, welding, and golfing with her husband, Mark, even though she yells fore more often than scoring a par four. She keeps in shape by catching lizards and snakes with her nine grandsons and three granddaughters.

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