A minor miracle occured this morning, and the magic ingredients were a couple of emails. What was the wonder of the day? Why, my summer just got longer — ten days longer, to be exact.

As several of you have already heard several times, I had no idea what time I was supposed to show up for my first day of work this Monday morning, and I was (as usual) debating over who to call, how to find out, and generally feeling like a dumbo because really. This is information I should have, and for some reason it made me feel foolish not to have it, even though it’s not my fault I didn’t. So, after the happy chance sighting of my new boss’s name engraved on a little bronze plaque at the Coolidge Corner Theater Tuesday evening, I leaped at the chance to email him about this funny coincidence and nonchalantly ask:

a) Has the school sneakily moved into a new home over the summer? (We are shifting sites this year, and I didn’t know when.)
b) Um, what time should I come on Monday?

In the fastest response I have ever gotten from this lovely man, he informed me in a surprised tone that

a) No, we’re still where you remember us being, and
b) New teachers don’t start till August 11th!

There you have it. Another week and a half of daytime television is in store for this lucky so-and-so. And in case you were wondering, it was just a coincidence — the headmaster of my new school just happens to share the name of the president of the board of directors of the Coolidge Corner Theater. Also in case you were wondering, I still do not know what time I am supposed to show up on August 11th.

In any case, to celebrate my extended vacation time, I decided to have a leisurely lunch at 1369, where I spent a cool nine dollars on a (very good) latte and a (cold, yummy, but probably not worth $5.25) chicken BLT sandwich. While I was consuming my delicious repast, I happened to be reading this fascinating tome.

Also as it happens, I was reading Chapter Three, delicately titled “Life After Death: On human decay and what can be done about it.” It was quite a surreal experience to be flipping through pages describing the processes of autolysis (”self-digestion”), bloat, and putrefaction while attempting to fill my stomach. Apparently, scientists at the University of Tennessee Anthropological Research Facility study the process of decay in the name of criminal forensics — so that investigators can figure out just how long a (not recently) dead body has been dead. Let me tell you, when you’re reading something like that, you start imagining all sorts of smells. Olfactory hallucination. Which makes finishing your chicken BLT a little difficult.

Still, Stiff is worth it. It’s the kind of nonfiction I love: witty, well-researched prose on an unusual subject, full of the writer’s own intelligent musings. It also has the distinction of being the first book jointly purchased by Ross and me on our snazzy new Amnesty International credit cards, acquired for shared purchases such as gas, groceries, and little luxuries.

(Don’t tell him I’m planning on putting my next pair of earrings on it.)