A mysterious package arrives. The return address: Lexington, KY. The sender: Cellularize.

Inside there’s a small transparent envelope containing what looks like an electronic device. I’m no sissy around electronics, but this item, I cannot identify. There’s a card that asks, “Love It?” And underneath that heading, a poem:

Roses are red, violets are blue

We hope you love your new cellularize product

and wouldn’t mind giving us

an unbiased product review (smiley face).

Perplexed, I stare into space until it occurs to me that even though I never ordered this unidentifiable item, I may have been charged for it. Checking my online banking, I breathe a sigh of relief when it shows no charge.

A small note informs that this object is a ‘right angle USB C adapter, cellularize (2 pack) 90 degree angle up and down type C elbows PD 100W quick charge low profile…” The ellipses at the end of the description indicate there might be more information but the back of the paper is blank. And then I see: ordered on October 21st, 2021. What? I check my bank account again. Absolutely no charge has been made for this object.

Carefully, I open the glassy envelope to see if I can really love this object as it requests. I admire its sleek miniscule elbow-shaped design, but I must admit, I don’t understand it, and even though I have a tendency to pursue, even love madly, people whom I don’t understand, the same does not apply to objects. I can’t say that I’ll ever love this curious item. I’ll give it to my husband for Christmas with a note; love me or leave me.

Days later, another mystery arrives by mail wrapped in what feels like a cross between tissue paper and plastic. It’s from Tajikistan, the home of comedian Sasha Baron Cohen’s fictitious character, Boris. I’m intrigued.

Ripping it open, I find a very large gaudy ring made of fake filigree gold and gem stones that look like glass but are probably plastic. This item would have sent me to the moon and back when I was five or even fifteen, but not today or so I think. Upon closer inspection, I see the ring is a size eight. I wear a six. A quick online visit to the bank account shows no charge from the sender. I try it on.

It’s three-quarters the length of my finger and covers my knuckle to such an extent I wonder if I’ll be able to bend my finger. I work the joint and find out, yes, I can wear it and still make a fist. However, when I do close the hand, the pointy parts of the ring stick out, and they’re a lot sharper than they look. This ring might make a good weapon. I refer to the customs declaration that clearly states the package should “not contain anything dangerous prohibited by postal or customs regulations.” A quick online check reveals a long list of customs restrictions that includes animal fur, ceramic tableware, and wild bird feathers. The list is so long I don’t have time to go over it in any detail. I’ll just assume pointy, sharp rings are on it.

I must confess, even though there’s no note and I have no idea who sent it, in its own way, the ring is awesome. It’s terribly tacky, questionably dangerous and obviously an incredible navigator having made it from far-off Tajikistan to the Delaware River Valley. A week later, another ring in the exact same style from the very same sender arrives. It asks nothing of me, but I think I’m being wooed. If this keeps up, perhaps someday I’ll fall in love.