My Sex Toys Got Shipped To My Mother-In-Law

This all started because I was browsing sex toys on Amazon. Lots of good things come from browsing sex toys on Amazon. Like these nipple clamps, for example, or this vibrator. Between their selection, Prime shipping, and world domination thing, Amazon has basically become the one-stop-shop for sex toys.

I was cruising ben wa balls in particular. I’d heard they could not only help with um, pelvic floor issues after childbirth, but they also felt really good. Especially if they vibrated. Especially if they vibrated by remote control. We could totally have fun with that. I picked this one. It’s in bladder control devices. It is clearly not meant *just* for bladder control.

It has a little sticky-outty wand clearly meant to touch … areas other than your pelvic floor. It vibrates. It comes with a fucking remote control. I carted it and figured my husband would buy it when he saw it. This is how we work Amazon.

My husband saw the sex toys.

My husband thought, yay, she wants more sex toys.

My husband clicked buy on the sex toys.

But Before He Clicked Buy On Those Sex Toys…

My MIL recently celebrated her 74th birthday. Happy birthday, MIL. 74! That’s a big one. I’d name her or her gift but then I’d have to enter the federal witness protection program. My husband bought her present on the same day he bought my sex toys. We live in different cities, so he had her present shipped directly to her in a cute little Amazon gift bag with a cute little note that read something like, “WE LOVE YOU!!! — YOUR SON AND DAUGHTER-IN-LAW, WHO HAVE NO NAMES, AND AN INDETERMINATE NUMBER OF CHILDREN.”

An hour after he bought ben wa balls, my husband came to a realization.

A horrifying realization.

Possibly the worst realization since “this natural family planning stuff doesn’t work for shit.”

My husband hadn’t changed the address on the Amazon shipment. My sex toys were addressed to my mother-in-law and through the miracles of Amazon, arriving same-day shipping at Chez Mother-in-Law. They were vibrating, remote control, dishwasher safe, medical grade silicon, and while clearly a sex toy, not your run-of-the-mill dildo. These things looked like they were designed for an alien genitalia, not our own.

And they had already left the warehouse. Somewhere, in a city that will remain anonymous forever but has superb Amazon service, a cute little van trundled happily towards my doom. My husband’s psyche would be destroyed. My MIL’s psyche would be destroyed. I would be forced to abandon the family, possibly for a life of crime.

We had also made one of those brave essential workers complicit in this slow-moving disaster.

Like Pandora, if she opened that box, hell would be loosed.

He Tried An Intercept

Anonymous Husband called his Most Trusted Sibling, who lives in the same city as my MIL. “Dude,” he said. “You have to do me a solid. I accidentally got sex toys shipped to Mom. They’re on same-day shipping and I can’t stop them. Can you like, wait in the driveway or something and get the package?”

Most Trusted Sibling almost wrecked their car laughing, then said, “Sorry. I’m in [insert anonymous city across anonymous state] on business. Try Sibling Who Mom Always Liked Better.”

He called Sibling Who Mom Always Liked Better. “Um, I like, accidentally got sex toys shipped to Mom?” Anonymous Husband said. “Could you like, maybe wait in the driveway and grab the Amazon package?”

“No,” said Sibling Who Mom Always Liked Better. “I have a life plus an indeterminate number of children? I’m not sitting on my ass in our mother’s driveway to pick up your sex toy package. Anyway, Anonymous Child has a stereotypically gender-appropriate extracurricular activity.”

He Had To Intervene

So my husband called his mom. He went direct first. “There’s an Amazon box coming,” he said. “It’s for us. It accidentally got shipped to you. Don’t open it.”

Immediate suspicion from his soon-to-be 74-year-old mother. Imagine her: small-boned, hair bobbed, impeccably dressed in Talbot’s to go nowhere. “Why shouldn’t I open it? What’s in it?”

Total. Tactical. Error. At this point, Anonymous Husband could have spit out, “A present for you. We want to give it to you when we get up there, so put it in the guest room.” Then we could have switched it for some monogrammed shit while she wasn’t looking. Instead, Anonymous Husband said, “Nothing. It’s no big deal. Just don’t open it.”

I can see her eyes narrowing even now. “Well, if it’s no big deal, why can’t I open it?”

I can only explain his reaction as a consequence of complete and total panic. “You just can’t.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t want—”

“Why can’t I open it? Is it— is there something wrong with it? Is it illegal? Amazon wouldn’t ship anything illegal, would they?” She did not, as Anonymous Husband points out, sound accusatory. The following lines should be read in a rising state of breathless panic, as if an Amazon employee may soon hand her an armed nuclear warhead.

“Mom—”

“{Redacted Name of Father-In-Law}, Amazon can’t ship anything illegal, can they?”

“Mom—”

“I’m putting this on speaker. Is it drugs? Did Amazon send you drugs?”

She activated speaker phone. Suddenly, my father-in-law became part of the problem. Suddenly, I needed my inhaler.

“Mom, Amazon didn’t send you drugs. Or me drugs. No. I mean, drugs were not sent to anyone. Amazon can’t send drugs.”

“Did they send you drug paraphernalia? Oh my God. Anonymous Husband, are you and Anonymous Writer taking drugs? You’re taking drugs, aren’t you?”

“No, Mom, we’re not taking drugs.”

Except we were, if you count me sucking my inhaler like Snoop sucks a bong as drugs. Or if you count the legal-in-California drugs I smoke as drugs.

“{Mother-In-Law’s Name Redacted}, I’m sure they aren’t taking drugs. What the hell is this about?”

“We accidentally got an Amazon package shipped to your house. I’m telling Mom not to open the box.”

“Well, {Redacted MIL}, don’t open the goddamn box.”

“But it might be illegal!”

“It’s not illegal, Mom.”

Well, only in Georgia and Alabama, but everyone knows they don’t count.

“I’m sure it’s not illegal.”

“But he won’t tell me what it is!”

“Anonymous Husband, tell your mother what’s in the damn box.”

“Can you just not open it and hold it for me?” Finally. “Anonymous Writer and I will get it when we come up with our indeterminate number of children.”

“{Redacted MIL}, just put the box in the damn guest bedroom.”

“Well, I don’t see what the big deal is if it’s not illegal. I don’t know why I can’t open it.”

“Anonymous Husband, I’ll take care of it.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

I may have fallen on the bed in relief or exhaustion.

Father-in-law, you will never know what you saved us from. You will never know what service you performed. By shutting down Anonymous MIL, you saved my sex toys, your son’s psyche, your wife’s sanity, and possibly the whole family.

Because as FIL’s favorite movie Dune says, “What’s in the box?”

Pain.

Note: FIL intercepted the package, delivered it safely to the guest bedroom, and it waits there for us. Unopened. We can only pray that MIL does not get a bug up her butt and decide it might be illegal so she’d better open it, just in case. I live in pure terror.