I know it’s hard to believe, but my eldest turned forty a few months ago. In my effort to make her milestone birthday memorable, I made plans to commission an original painting. Thankfully, I mentioned the subject I had chosen, which was not something she wanted; she wanted one I owned. I agreed; she might as well have it now, then when I’m dead.

After some very sparse research, my friend and I went off to FedEx to ship it this week. (For your edification, the framed lithograph is 36″X4″X34″ and is valued at approximately $500.)

“How may I help you?”

“I need you to pack and ship this to South Carolina.”

“And your account number?”

“I don’t have a FedEx account.”

“Then, I need to see your driver’s license.” And for the next fifteen minutes, she fiddled around with her computer. She walked away and conversed with the manager. “The box will be $280.”

“Fine. That sounds reasonable,” as I attempted to shove my credit card in the terminal.

“Plus insurance and shipping.”

WTH? “How much is that?”

“Four hundred and ninety dollars, plus the $280 box.”

My friend could no longer contain herself, “Are you saying one cardboard box costs $280?”

The clerk nodded.

“That’s absolutely absurd.” She picked up the painting, “Come on, Sue, we are out of here!”

We got in my car, “Can you believe it?”

“I was afraid you were crazy enough to pay it. Sorry for my intrusion, but you could practically drive it there for less.”

After my encounter with FedEx, I tried to rein in my craziness to no avail. For then came the megalomaniac, and his little automatons: Gabbard, Patel, and RFK. I suspect I will remain bat shit crazy for the next four years.