In Praise of Boxes

I like boxes. All kinds of boxes. Think about it. Receiving a box in the mail is almost always a treat. A package expected or better unexpected contains something you bought, or something someone bought for you. Fun, in my opinion.

Little blue boxes (Tiffany, not that I’ve ever received one of those) have to be a treat. In fact most little boxes are nice. They might contain anything from a ring to Nerds to Milk Duds (or Junior Mints!) to stationery to paper clips. All fun.

And since I’m not much of a cook, boxes mean dinner for me. Tonight, for example, I made Red Beans and Rice from a box. Before you turn up your nose at it, remember, I’m not from New Orleans, I’m first generation American, and without the box I wouldn’t enjoy any red beans and rice at all. Doughnuts come in a box if you buy enough of them (Krispy Kremes, mmmmmmm), and cake boxes, those pretty soft pink ones tied with string (Do they still have those?) are truly beautiful.

My favorite tea room here in town gives you a cute little box to pack your dainty bites into and then they pack it into a lovely gift bag, one of which has be serving as my lunch bag for the past two weeks. Tomorrow will be its last day, I’m afraid. Its integrity has been compromised, but the little box I still have waiting for me to tuck something into it.

Presents come in boxes. Who doesn’t love a present? And shoes come in boxes. I love shoe boxes. I loathe throwing them out because they seem like they could be so useful for. . .something.

Boxes fool me into thinking I might actually become organized one of these years. I will clean out that closet and put things into boxes that I can’t get rid of but no longer need on the shelf. (Hahaha. That’s a fine joke. Me. Cleaning a closet and organizing).

Best box of all? When a box of books comes from the publisher showing off your latest work. Sigh. I wish I received those more often.

–Gabi

Books I’m reading now:
The Blinding Knife by Brent Weeks

Cold

We had our first dusting of snow last night. I’m not a big fan of cold. I’ve been known to take two-hour baths just to soak up the heat. Of course I’m too cheap and environmentally frugal to turn up the thermostat either. If you can’t tell from the previous sentences, I’m not a big fan of winter. I don’t ski, skate, or participate in biathlons, I don’t like bundling up, and I don’t often indulge in coffee, tea, or hot chocolate.

And yet I find the pictures of snow-covered homes nestled in white woods strangely compelling and comforting. I think I’m attracted to the myth of winter rather than the actuality. I love the thought of a cozy fire (we haven’t lit one in at least two years), hands wrapped around a warm mug (see statement above), wearing a big, warm fuzzy sweater (body image issues get in the way), watching snow fall from behind a window. Yeah, reality tends to muck up the myth. Slipping on the road while driving, the dogs wiping their muddy paw prints on my carpeting (snow doesn’t stay on the ground long here, so the backyard turns to mud), no cookies baking in the oven (I don’t like to bake; heck I don’t like to cook, but that’s a whole other rant), the wind cutting through the layers and there’s always that one inch of exposed skin on your face no matter what you do. My nose runs, my eyes sting, my feet and fingers don’t warm up until May.

After careful analysis, I think I need to live in a climate controlled bubble. I am such a whiner.
–Gabi

Books I’m reading now:
The Blinding Knife by Brent Weeks
Fourth Grave Beneath My Feet by Darynda Jones