I love my mother, but sometimes she isn't the brightest bulb in the chandelier. In a delightfully improbable coincidence, my apartment is in the building next door to my brother's. The address of my sublet is 320, No. 3. My brother's apartment is 326, No. 1. 320, No. 3 and 326, No. 1 are very similar addresses, I understand this. Nevertheless, one would think that it would not be beyond her capacity to differentiate between the two if only she would pay close attention. When last I was home, Mom expressed surprise that I had not yet received a package she had sent. I asked her, "Mom, did you send it to the right place?" I asked not because I think she's stupid, but because she has misaddressed mail before. She looked at my crossly and asserted she was certain she had properly addressed the package. A couple days ago, I received an email from the All-American Boy, the Bald Mountain's roommate, telling me he had some mail from my mom addressed to me. Today, I was able to pick up the package. It was addressed to 320, No. 1; so, technically, it was properly addressed to neither of us. Oh, Mom.