Last weekend I I got in to a fight with my aunt. As I nestled in to the sagging third cushion of Aunt Debbie’s floral print sofa, I noticed a medium-sized green box strategically placed under the rattan coffee table, obviously purchased at a Pier 1 sidewalk sale. As the night fell and the tiffany-style knock-off lamps gathered control of life’s illumination, I became transfixed on the corner of this box.
Finally, after exhausting all of possible pathways of communication surrounding the election, the papal attack on NYC and whether or not Andy Griffith was the first choice to play Ben Matlock, I shifted in my seat, cleared my throat, looked at my cousin and uttered, “What is that?”
Phil jumped from his seat, gleefully interrupting his mother, “Holmes said he wants to play. We were hoping someone would want to. Our night is perfect now, mother.”
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