Um?

So I babysat tonight and missed a work function in the process but the function was a dinner and I'm not hungry. I got paid to knit in the living room while the little girl slept, and afterward, on my way to the train, I bought a bottle of wine. I was so tired and distracted that I thanked the man when he gave me my change and then I arranged it all nicely in my wallet and hoisted up my tote full of knitting (I am like four hundred years old) and headed on my way. I was halfway to the train before I realized I'd left the wine in the liquor store, and then I had to go back and that took up a ton of time.

When I got home there were two men I didn't recognize sitting on the stairs, but I tried to pretend that it wasn't weird. I opened my mailbox and my Time Out New York was all wrinkled because there was a package jammed in beside it and the mailbox is small.

This surprised me. I order a fair amount of stuff online but I never ship it to my apartment. For one thing, I do not trust the security of my building. Any item too big to fit in my sliver of a mailbox might get left beside my door, or, God forbid, in the lobby, where strange men sometimes congregate to sit on the stairs. For another thing my mailman is wretchedly unforgiving when it comes to erroneous addresses. Every i must be dotted or else the package gets returned to sender, a process which takes weeks longer than one would need to deliver the item on foot. I have missed out on presents this way, and last year at Christmas card time, I was certain I had no friends (turns out, I have two). I always ship to work, and one time I even sent a couch there and that was super funny for the receptionist.

Finding a package was unexpected. To see that it was from Target.com was moreso. That meant that I had ordered something and shipped it to myself at the wrong address and I still had no idea what it was. The holes in my memory were getting more serious. I was leaving wine in rundown liquor stores all over Chelsea, and I was sending myself mystery packages. I opened it as I ascended the stairs, but it was difficult to balance, what with the knitting.

I pulled the last of the shipping tape off as I got indoors. A book. Room, by Emma Donoghue, which I super ohmigosh have wanted to read for a long time, but which I most definitely did not buy. A packing slip fell to the ground, which I grabbed. One item. Sold to: Carrie K. in suburban Ohio. Shipped to: Carrie K. in suburban Ohio. But NOT. Shipped secretly to me.

So this is weird. This is super weird. I don't know Carrie K. (although I looked her up on Facebook and she seems like a nice person; I kind of want to message her unless it turns out she stole my identity and used it to buy a paperback) and she definitely didn't send me a present; she sent herself a present, although why she's buying books from Target is between her and Jesus. And I could be like, OK sure, Target.com just mixed up the shipping labels and somebody's computer grabbed the wrong address on file. Except. I don't have a Target.com account. This is not even like an I-remembered-to-take-the-wine claim; it's legitimate. I swear to you, I swear, that I have never given my address to their website. They won't even send me a sign-in password.

So anybody's theories on this would be appropriate now.