The Longest 16 hours ever. AKA My boys’ first sleepover…

By some miracle, my kids have managed to make it to the ripe old ages of ten and twelve without me being subjected to a sleepover.

Last night that streak ended…and so did my sanity.

For the last three years, my kids have “organized” sleepovers that have always managed to fall-through. Usually in the form that my child and the other children made all of these plans, but forgot one crucial component: forgot to ask their parents! Sometimes I was asked and the other mother wasn’t and sometimes it was the other way around. So, last week when I was asked if two Hooligans from a few blocks away could come stay the night the first night of Christmas break, I said, “Sure.” Never in my wildest dreams thinking it would happen.

Oh, I was wrong.  IT happened.

Now, before I give you all the dirty details, I will openly admit that I know that overall this was VERY MILD compared to what some people endure, but for me and my first experience, I was ready to pull out my hair–not not just the grey ones.

Here’s a rundown of events:

5 pm–Hooligans arrive. I start making pizza.

5:20–Hooligan #1 poops something the size of a baby in our toilet. This hooligan will forevermore be referred to as Pooper.

5:25–Eddie informs me that Pooper is ticked because Henry and Hooligan 2 commented on the size of Pooper’s deposit. Pooper threatened to go home. (Sounds bad, but I would have been fine with that.) I talked to the boys about remembering we’ve all been constipated before. It’ll be OK, let it go.  (Clearly this kid let one go.)

5:30–kids leave-relief floods me…

5:37–kids return with a TV… they take it upstairs to Eddie’s room…

5:45–pizza cut and served

5:50–kids take their pizza and several cans of pop upstairs. My jaw drops and steam starts spiraling out of my ears. My kids KNOW better than to take food upstairs. We eat at the table only. Taking a deep breath, I mentally dislodge the stick from my backside. This isn’t the end of the world. Besides, it might be better they eat upstairs where I don’t have to hear them belching and smacking their food. It’ll be OK. This just gives me the perfect excuse to make Eddie clean his room top to bottom tomorrow.

7–kids come ask if they can use the big TV in the living room. I surrender the remote and go make myself useful in the kitchen, then decide to go to my room.

8–they start rummaging through all of the DVDs in the closet with such great noise I’m sure our closet neighbor heard…and they aren’t that close. I peek my head out to see how bed the mess is and there is a trail of DVDs from the hall closet, across the living room, to the other hall, up the stairs and to Henry’s room. I swung open the door and declared, the DVD-brick road needs to be cleaned up NOW.

8-1:10–kids are up and down, up and down, up and down the stairs. They have decided to watch their DVDs upstairs but keep coming downstairs for more cans of pop… I can’t say for sure, but I think they each had on average five cans. Note to self: you didn’t hide them well enough, Rose!

1:10–I have had enough and I hear someone rooting around in the pantry. I get out of bed and put a stop to it. “But Mom, Pooper’s STARVING,” says Eddie. Gritting my teeth, I tell them, “I’ll make a big breakfast in the morning. It’s after 1 am. It’s time to be sleeping. No more food and no more pop. Go to bed.” I followed them upstairs and told all four of them it was time for bed.  Do you think they went to bed? NO!!! They giggled, stomped, talked loud, thundered up and down the stairs until 4 am. At which point I went in there and about lost it. They’d all written all over each others faces with colored Shapries. I was horrified to find that Henry had a strong similarity to Satan. Telling them all in as calm of a voice as possible that it was time for them to GET SOME SLEEP then I went back to bed as if that was actually going to happen.

4:30–I hear what can only be the front door. I bolt out of bed and swing my door open in time to realize Pooper has decided he’s had enough of me being bossy–he’s going home. Oh and Hooligan 2 is going with him and since he brought his TV, Playstation, and enough clothes to stay for a week my kids are going to help him carry his crap home. I said no. It’s dark out there. Nobody leaves until the sun is up. Fortunately they didn’t argue. But decided they wanted to go jump on the trampoline…with flashlights. I quickly found a movie for them to watch on Netflix, parked them on the sofa with popcorn and told them not to get their butts up until the sun was up.

5:55-ish, Eddie comes to knock on my door. Pooper called his mom and said he had her permission to walk home.

6:15–I walk out to find my boys and the one remaining Hooligan are passed out on the sofa.

9–kids wake up, Hooligan doesn’t like the cereal I have and decides to go home.

Sleepover OVER.  And looking around at what could only be described as tornadic activity that has swept through my kitchen, dining room and living room there will NEVER be another sleepover again. My kids, however, don’t realize this because they’re already trying to plan another and I hate to say it, but that won’t be happening!

 

As I said, I know others have had it worse, so here’s my QUESTION: Please, oh, please, tell us all about your sleepover from hell. I really want to hear someone else’s experience. Misery loves company, you know.

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You’re killing me, Smalls!

One of my all-time favorite movies is The Sandlot. One of the best lines: “You’re killing me, Smalls”! I often find myself saying that to one of my boys. Last night, I said it to each of them.

Last night was their Christmas program (yes, they go to a public school and yes, the school called it that). We live about a mile from the school and along the way is a Dollar General, the only place within about 10 miles to buy food.

So, with those details in mind, here’s the story that transpired within less than the two minutes it takes to get from our house to the school.

As soon as we got in the car a funny smell wafted to my nose. *sniff, sniff* “What is that?”

“What’s what?” Henry, my youngest, asked.

“That smell?” I take another sniff and wrinkle my nose. Something does NOT smell right. “It smells weird, but I can’t place it.”

“Oh, it’s me,” cackled my twelve-year-old. “I put a dab of your pain relief cream on my hands.”

“Why?”

“Because I think it smells good,” he said.

“Seriously? Are you trying to tell me you want some cologne for Christmas?”

“No. I don’t want the girls all over me. I just like the way this smells.”

It smells like Menthol. That is NOT a good smell. Resisting the urge to bang my head against the steering wheel, I muttered, “You’re killing me, Smalls.”

About this time, my youngest goes, “Mom, I need to bring food for the party tomorrow.”

Now I want to bang my head against the steering wheel for a different reason. I didn’t bring any money. Why? Honestly, it was simply because it was so warm out that I forgot my coat at home that had my cash and debit card. Spotting, the Dollar General up ahead, I reached one hand into the cup holder and pulled out my spare change, shook my head and said, “You’re killing me, too, Smalls.”

The lady in Dollar General giggled right along with me when I apologized to her for buying not just one, but two bags of cheese popcorn with an array of quarters, dimes, nickels and pennies. Seriously, I love my kids–as is obvious by my humiliation of buying snacks with sticky change–but sometimes I swear they’re killing me! 😀 😀

QUESTION: What have YOU done for someone you love that you never imagined you’d do?

Tenzi!

This past July I went on a small vacation to Branson, Missouri to see a handful of live shows and most importantly walk through the craft malls because I, Rose Gordon, am a Craft Mall Junkie. So much so, I actually have to set myself on a timer when I go in one so I make sure to keep walking. Even if I leave without buying anything, I am the sort who has to look at every single booth and think to myself, “Would I use/decorate/love/hate that?”

Branson has four, maybe five of these malls–all so large you could seriously spend half the day in each. I did not. I was a good girl. I kept moving to “beat the clock” and I even did one better by bringing along cash, knowing that when my cash was gone, I was done. (Yes, I went so far as to leave my debit card securely locked away at a different location so I wouldn’t be tempted.)

Final hour in Branson, I had done sooooo good. I hadn’t lingered too long in any single store and I still had money! I was on a roll!

Then, I saw it…

Tenzi. 

In every store I’d gone in–even ones that weren’t craft malls–I kept seeing these plastic square tubes full of colored dice. The first time or two I didn’t really pay much attention, but after seeing it for about the 10th time, I thought “Wow, these people sure do like their dice. Maybe this is like Vegas for the family oriented people.”

“Want to play?”

I nearly jumped out of my skin. “Play what?”

“Tenzi,” said the lady standing behind the counter. She pushed ten red dice at me. “Pick ’em up and roll ’em.”

Obediently, I complied.

“Get your sixes,” she said.

So I did.

“I want to play,” said this teenage girl.

The lady pushed her a set of ten dice and the girl took off rolling and separating them.

“What now?” I asked hesitantly. There’s nothing worse than be the person who doesn’t know what’s going on while everyone else does.

“Keep rolling,” the older lady said, rolling her color and moving her sixes aside.

“I just keep rolling and pulling out the sixes?” I asked, totally confused.

“Yes,” the older lady said at the same time as the little teeny-bopper shouts “TENZI!!!” right in my ear.

I looked over at her dice and all ten showed the number six. Her face showed a smug expression.

“Sorry,” her mom said, poking her head around the side of her. “My kids played all night last night.”

I nodded slowly.

“It’s not really fair that I beat two old ladies,” the girl said.

Her offhanded response struck a nerve. I’m not old! I might be 31, but I’m not old! “All right, girl,” I said in a voice I barely recognized as my own. “Game on.” I pushed my hair behind my ear then grabbed my dice.

The girl started giggling and it sounded like she said something akin to “Yeah right.” She picked up her dice. “Shall I go easy on you and start back at sixes?” Her mocking tone stoked my competitive fire, but let me know that I didn’t fully understand the rules!

I looked at the older woman who’d first trapped me into playing this. “How do we play?”

“First round, everyone starts out looking for sixes. The first person to get all of their dice to read six, they say, ‘Tenzi’ and the round is over. The next round whoever had their sixes starts working on their fives and everyone else continues to roll of sixes. There is only one winner per round…”

“I think I have it.” I nodded to the girl who was staring at me like I was a moron. “GO!” I tossed down my dice and started frantically looking for sixes. I scooped up the remaining numbers and rolled again, and again, and again, each time moving aside my sixes. “Tenzi!” I hollered, trying not to laugh at the shocked look on the girl’s face. She’d had nine fives and was trying to roll her tenth.

She grabbed her dice. “GO!”

The next six minutes were the most satisfying six minutes of my entire trip as I trounced a sixteen year old girl in a game that solely consists of rolling dice. I know, I know, it was immature of me to challenge someone to a game. But let me tell you, there is an inexplicable euphoric feeling at whooping the butt of a cocky teenager–even if it is just in rolling dice. (Even her mom seemed to be reveling in the moment!)

I am so immature in fact that I whistled all the way to the checkout with a my very own package of multicolored dice.

Here’s what it looks like:

I’ve been told you can find it in certain toy stores or I found it on Amazon. It’s super easy to play and my kids LOVE it. (In fact, they beg to play it.) You can play it at the table, on the floor, coffee table, etc. Anywhere with a flat surface. I mentioned the easiest way to play. But someone has written a book with 77 Ways to Play.

QUESTIONS:

1. What are your favorite boardgames?
2. Have you ever stooped to my level to act immature in order to prove your point? (Come on now, I know some of you have!)

 

 

 

 

 

Visiting the “Draft” file…

I spent a good part of Monday afternoon reading through the 123 (no exaggeration!) blog posts I’ve drafted but haven’t published. Some turned out to be great stories that I’ll publish with a word of warning that the content came from the draft file. Then there were several wonderful titles that got me super excited to read what in the world I’d blogged about, only to open the post and see nothing, or just a few words or sentences. So, because misery loves company, I’m going to share some of these titles with you all so you can all be like me and wonder “where was that going?!”.

• Yard Sales vs. Rose Gordon (The only line in the post said: Yard sales for the win!)
• Backhanded Compliments (The only line in this post read: No matter who you are, we’ve all received one of these little jewels…)
• Let it Go! (Not the song)
• My Favorite Things (Yes, because you ALL have been waiting with bated breath for what I love. As if I’m Oprah. Good grief.)
• In My Former Life (Actually, this one has a LOT of content. I write it when I was 27–I’m now 31–but I might post this one one day when I’m scraping the bottom of the barrel.)
• From the Marshmallow Man to a Beast! What’s a mother to do?! (This was from two years ago when my son started wrestling at school and got his butt handed to him. That didn’t last too long. 😉 )
• Candid, Blunt and…well, perhaps a little TMI
• Didja Know #10 the definition of a Nincompoop
• Wicked Wednesday!
• Didja Know Facts about Humans (Contrary to the cute kid in Jerry McGuire, the human head weighs approximate 12 pounds.)
• The Truth about Passions of a Gentleman (Ooooh, so many things this post could have contained, but probably didn’t.)
• Wanna be my friend? Probably not.
• Looking into 2015
• Sometimes I wonder…
• A Day in the Life: Humble Pie (I dearly wish I’d written something–ANYTHING on this page to know what I was talking about because I am quite certain that since the date I wrote that heading I’ve eaten a lot more humble pie.)
• Ten Year Reunion?
• Unspoken, but not unimportant, rules among authors
• End-of-Year questions for teachers and moms (final plea as homeroom mom). This was the year an alien had inhabited my body and told the teacher I’d be delighted to be the homeroom mom for a gaggle of kindergarteners. 
• Research
• RT Anyone?
• Kids + Outside = Resistance, “no fun”, and a tinge of whining! Why, oh why?
• Awkward confession…totally off topic.
• Seeking suggestions.
• I need help… (yes, yes I did and still do!)
• A writer’s confessional
• A writer’s biggest reward
• Let’s talk spam, and I don’t mean food.
• No title
• Advice on friends from Edward Banks
• Poor Bob
• A candid discussion and a few revelations
• Come laugh at me!
• Authors are human, too. At least this one.
• Writerly Woes
• Oh. My.
• Scandalized. (Another Florida escapade.)
• An Impromptu poll (AKA I need help again.)
• Inside joke for those who’ve read Intentions of the Earl (I’d love to share with you all where I was going with this, but alas, the contents were blank.)
• Oh help us all…I’ve been asked to act as host.
• Drawing lines–Warning Touchy Subject
• It’s tough being a writer… (So tough, I seemed to have given up on this topic after writing the title.)
• In regards to my books, please note:
• Guilty pleasures
• A hot date
• 10 things you probably don’t know about me (Seeing as how I only got to #5, I’m going to take that as a hint that I’m pretty dang boring.)
• Hard lesson: old manuscript copies do not make suitable scrap paper.
• Not a fairytale wedding
• Do romance novelists have a more stellar romantic life than everyone else? (I can answer that without a post: no.)
• Ever wish the ground would open up and swallow you whole?
• Honest chat
• Perceptions
• Men can be such babies
• Henry and June, Part 2
• Right on!
• Unconventional
• Where did you come up with THAT?!

 

There were many other fully written blog posts that might require a little polishing and posting. Turns out I blogged more than I originally thought I had. 😀

 

Death (wish) by Summer Sausage

[WARNING: you might want to skip this post if you have a weak stomach–or at least wait until you aren’t eating.]

I love summer sausage. Nay, not love. I LOVE summer sausage.

Summer sausage, however, doesn’t love me…

Around this time of year, my local Sam’s Club will sell have a display full of about 300 logs with a label: “Yard ‘o Beef” slapped on the front. I cannot force myself to walk past the display without my mouth watering and my fingers itching to grab just one…OK two.

And so it was in October I came home from Sam’s with six feet of beef (these things are about as thick as the business-end of a baseball bat). It was all I could do to wait until I got all of my groceries put away before sawing into one. Then, I did a few more chores and I cut off a few more thin slices. I sat down on the computer to do emails and check book sales–grabbed a few more slices for the task. Dinner time came, I wasn’t so hungry so I cooked for my boys and just snacked on another couple of slices. Played a game with my kids and spent an hour of us all doing some clean up. When they went to bed, I decided to watch an episode of Switched at Birth (I just discovered this show and it’s really good). Anyway, I was feeling hungry now so…you can guess where this went, I grabbed that blasted summer sausage log, a knife and cutting board and headed for the living room.

By the time I was ready to head for bed, I realized that in the course of the afternoon, I’d devoured approximately half of that log! Yep, that’s about 18″ of a slab of densely packed beef.

Gritting my teeth, I shoved it as far back in the refrigerator as I could so I wouldn’t have a repeat performance the next day.

I soon found out, that step was unnecessary when an hour later I was awakened with the most painful stomachache I’d ever experienced.  Followed by a taste in my mouth so foul my nose and eyes watered. I rolled over to get more comfortable and the situation intensified. Immediately, I shot up. I need to get to the bathroom! It wasn’t a far walk, but alas, the trip was made for naught. Nothing was budging either way. In fact, it just made me sicker. I slunk back to my bed and crawled in, another round of the noxious gasses filling my mouth. Blech. I laid on my side and a HUGE air bubbled filled my stomach. Groaning, I rolled back onto my back and in all of my infinite wisdom, I tried to push my stomach for relief. Nothing.

Sweat started t0 dot my hairline and my stomach roiled and burned with pain as what felt like a ball of broken shards of glass started to move in my intestine. I thought I was going to die.

The ball of broken glass only moved about three inches, then stopped. I clenched my eyes closed tight and repressed a groan, then flipped onto my stomach. Pressure! I need to put some serious pressure under my stomach. Let’s force this ball through! No such luck. Never in my life have I ever wanted to have gas, but at that moment, I’d definitely welcome it.

Gas! Perfect. Clutching my stomach and trying to blow out the nasty taste in my mouth as quickly as I could, I hobbled to the bathroom to see if I have any sort of GasX or PeptoBismol. No and no. Another eruption of nasty taste accompanied by bile surged up my throat and into my mouth. Instinctively, I clenched my belly and just knew 18″ of summer sausage was about to reappear. Nope. Not that fortunate. Nothing.

I glanced at he clock. It was barely past midnight which meant the Podunk dollar store about 1/2 a mile from me wouldn’t be open and my conscience wouldn’t let me drive to town to get the relief I sought while my kids slept. It was almost bad enough to consider waking them. Almost. Thoughts of having to hobble around Walmart at dark-thirty while clenching my stomach and groaning in pain kept me from going. What if someone thought I was on drugs and called the police on me?!

Another rush of pain shook my body and I flung my writhing, hot self up into the bed, waiting to die because surely this would be my last night on earth.

Obviously it wasn’t, but it went by slower than a UPS delivery when you know something’s coming. With each tick of the clock, I could almost hear “sausage, sausage, sausage, sausage, sausage”.

When morning finally came, I felt no better than I had hours earlier and had to take three breaks on my way up the stairs to wake up the boys. (A good old fashioned wake up call might have been a better idea.)

When at last I got them downstairs, fed, clothed and out the door to the bus stop, I flopped like a worm out to the car, climbed in my car and floored it to the dollar store.

“Pepto,” I croaked to the clerk when I walked in.

She blinked at me. “Pardon?”

“My stomach is about to explode,” I said through gritted teeth. “I need PeptoBismol.”

I can’t be sure, but I swear that clerk started giggling. I just followed her outstretched finger and with one hand groping along the racks to help keep me upright, I padded over to the far back corner of the store. Of course. I finally reached the back. My eyes raced across the rows of antacids, gas relief, laxatives. No Pepto or Mylanta. My eyes blurred with tears. No, this cannot be. It MUST be here. I looked again, this time using my finger to help my eyes stay on track. Finally, at the very bottom all by itself was one lonely, pink bottle. Grunting like a madwoman, I leaned so far forward I feared I might fall face first into the display (scarcely concerned about the laws of nature and that it would be this very minute that the glass bubble decided to exit–but secretly hoping it would just to relieve the pressure. Who cares if I’d be too embarrassed to ever shop there again. Relief was NEEDED.).

Making my way to the checkout, I noticed what I had in my hand was some cheap imitation. I didn’t care. it was pink and it was by the stomach relief items. That as good enough for me. I started pulling off the plastic that surrounded the cap and shoved it in my pocket. I got up to unoccupied counter and plunked my bottle on the belt. With a groan, I rang the bell, then twisted the cap off and in a move that would make my germaphobe mom shudder in disgust, I took the biggest key on my keyring and stabbed it through the foil seal on the bottle of knock-off Pepto. Vaguely aware that the cashier was now at the register and ready to scan my bottle of summer sausage antidote, I chugged about a third of that bottle.

Wiping the back of my hand across what I’m sure was a pink mustache dotting my upper lip in the most undignified way, I reached into my pocket and paid the lady, then muttered an apology, grabbed my bottle of serum and grunted back to the car.

Ten minutes later…

Everything was fine and I was contemplating breakfast (just no summer sausage).

And now, I have been cured. Just Sunday I was at Sam’s and walked past the display without having even a twinge of an urge to take one home. No, thank you!

QUESTION: What could you eat (or have already eaten) so much of you could make yourself sick? If you have overindulged, did it cure your hankering? Come on, let’s hear those stories!

Texts from my mom…

It’s Monday morning and as such, we are all in need of a little laugh to kickstart our week. What better way to do that than with a few texts my mom has sent me…

1. A little backstory, she’s awful at math. So bad, it’s only college algebra that stands between her and a degree…
   
2. If there was ever any doubt she loves her grandkids…Doubt solved. And yes, I’m a meanie… “Just delete it.”
3. And finally…the very best way to say Happy Valentine’s Day to your daughter…

If ever you wonder why I’m so scandalous, I think that speaks for itself!

Have a wonderful Monday!!!

 

 

Didja Know? #9 Falling in line with Wicked Wednesday…

Falling in line with the Wicked Wednesday theme, here are some Victorian Euphemisms for certain…er…female things.

Adultery: Criminal Conversation

Brothel: House of Ill Repute, Sporting House, Temple of Venus, Den of Vice, Disorderly House

Condoms: French Letters, French Male Safes, French Secrets

Female Genitals: The Box, Pandora’s Box

Loss of Virginity: Deflower(ing), Loss of Honor and Ornament, Tossing Away the Jewel of her Soul

Male Genitals: Peculiar Members, Secrets

Menstruation: The Monthly Sickness, Love’s Eternal Wound, The Curse/The Curse of Eve

Pantaloons: Unmentionables, Inexpressibles

Prostitutes: Degraded Daughters of Eve, Soiled Doves, Fallen Women, Daughters of Pleasure, The Fair but not Frail, Immoral Temptress, Aspasia, Girl on the Town, The Unfortunate Children of Sorrow, Bawds

Prostitution: The Great Social Evil, The Horizontal Trade, The Frail Sisterhood, The Practice of Debauchery, Criminal Connection

Pubic Hair (female):  Cupid’s Arbor

Sexual Intercourse: Sexual Congress, Carnal Connection, Carnal Knowledge, Sparking, Conjugal Attachment

Venereal Disease: Social Disease, The Bad Disorder, The Frightful Physical Malady, The Private Disease

 

~*~Since the majority of my books are in the Regency Era, I didn’t know a lot of these until I had to do some research to write for the Victorian Era (westerns). It’s really interesting how very few of these words crossed eras!

Why, Just Why Wednesday

[WARNING: Don’t read this post during your lunch break! Even though it’s probably lunch time…]

Like everyone else last month, I was perusing websites looking for gift ideas for that one person I hadn’t a clue what to buy for.

In my case, it was for a teenage boy. Having never been a teenage boy I didn’t even know where to begin so I went to Google.

One of the top (yes, you read that right, TOP) gift ideas:

A blackhead removal toolkit…

And because a link to this one just isn’t enough, here’s a picture, too!

 

 

Is it just me or do some of those tools look like what they use on your teeth at the dentist?

You’re welcome!

Antique stores–not just for antiques anymore!

I live about 15-20 minutes away from a quaint older town that still has a historic downtown which consists of a main street with massive turn-of-the-century buildings that contain some items as old (or older) than the buildings.

The buildings are old. The floors creak and groan when you walk on them. Some (okay, almost all) of the stores have a…er…aroma when you walk in that seems to get stronger when you pass by specific areas.

I love it!

But what makes these stores interesting is that they’re not antiques all owned by the store owner, but rather the store is divided into sections or booths and it’s like an indoor, year-round flea market. And, what’s also neat is it’s not just limited to antiques. Sure, I’ve found some totally awesome antiques in some of these shops: vintage typewriter, candlestick phone, wall-mounted crank telephone (with guts), ice tongs, cotton scale, 50s style milk bottles–and the carrying crate; I’ve also found plenty of new items that are either made to look vintage or they’re just plain modern, but obviously people (including me…) are buying them or they wouldn’t be putting them in these booths any longer. Some of these include: bath salts, candles, salsa, custom made signs, CDs, tapes, records, DVDs, VHS tapes, greeting cards either handmade or a package of unwanted store-bought cards, soap, fancy mirrors, miscellaneous silver pieces, crayons, mis-matched plates, etc. You name it, it’s in there somewhere. I once half-jokingly told my husband Bob that it’s like some of these people are having a garage sale without the garage or the need to actually bother with running the drawer themselves. If/when it sells, it sells and if it doesn’t, they just go collect it all when they’re ready to stop renting space.

It’s truly a wonder (and I bet you all have at least one of these little treasure troves near you).

About once a month, I go troll through the row of stores. Yesterday was my January “run”. Some months I just go and look and try to keep my jaw hinged. Other times I buy something in each store. I don’t plan it that way, but it happens. I go in. Something calls my name and I have to take it home. I actually save up each month for these trips.

Yesterday only one thing called to me, and oh, did it scream! Now, it’s probably not what anyone else I know would have walked out with, but it had my name written all over it and shows you that I, too, can be just as scandalous as any of the Banks sisters…specifically Liberty. 😉

So of course, I had to hang it above the door to my laundry room although I doubt anyone will…

 

(Oh, hey, look as an added bonus, this falls on a Wicked Wednesday!)

*Facepalm*

In order to protect the guilty (and unbelievable), I will omit the name of the store where this happened…

For Christmas I decided to make a photo album for someone as a gift. I know, I know, printed pictures are outdated. But for this person, it’s the best way. So anyway, I spent several days filtering though all of the pictures on my phone and uploading them online to have them printed. My grand total was nearly 150 pictures spanning back about 18 months. I had no idea it’d be so many, but nonetheless, I thought they were all good choices and submitted them to have them printed.

Taking into account that they’d be ready on Christmas Eve, I took a deep breath and planned my day accordingly.

First step, call the store and ask what time they’ll close so I know when I need to be there.

*ring, ring*

“This is blah, blah, what do you need?”

Lovely greeting. “Yes, I’d like to know what time–”

“Doors close at 7 o’clock.”

“What about the photo lab?” I know this might sound like a stupid question, but what if it closes earlier? Some stores are 24/7 but their pharmacy and photo lab closes sooner so to me it seemed like a legit question.

WRONG.

“Lady, the whole store closes at 7 p.m. That means everything!”

Well, alrighty then.

After thanking her as nicely as I could, I hung up the phone and decided I’d swing by there before going to my father-in-law’s for lunch just in case the photo area did close sooner.

I go in with the expectation of collecting my pictures and I leave in a state of utter disbelief.

The lady in front of me pays for her order and the guy behind the counter decides as soon as she’s done checking out, that he’s done, too. He sees me, but he wanders off to go chew the fat with the two other lab techs about their Christmas plans.

So I do what any mature woman of my age would do: seethe.

Behind me, the lady in line says, “It must be nice to be paid to chat about Christmas plans while the line builds.”

Trying not to laugh, I jokingly parried with, “Think they’d notice if we jumped the counter and found our own prints?”

This seemed to grab the attention of one of the two ladies who were chatting with our wayward clerk. She lumbers on over and asks my name. I give it.

Humming, Santa Claus is Coming to Town, this woman who can’t be less than 50 years old starts digging through the drawer of photos–grunting every couple of bars.

“What’d you say your name is again?”

“Rose Gordon.”

“Can you spell that?”

“G-O-R-D-O-N.”

“And Rose?”

Seriously?! Straining to keep a straight face, I spell it.

“Not seeing them…” She looks up and taps her lips with her finger. “Do you have any other names?”

“No…” Well sure, there’s my maiden name, but what reason would I have had to have used that at the photo lab?

“Hmmm…” She digs through the files a little more. “I don’t see it.  When was it supposed to be ready?”

I tell her and she can’t believe anything would be ready on Christmas Eve (yes, because they’re all closed up…). So I dig out my phone and bring up my confirmation email. After LICKING HER FINGER, she starts scrolling on my phone. “Hmmm. Well, they should be here, then.” She went back to the drawer and started looking again. “Aha, we have a Louisa Gordon. Could these be yours?”

“Um, no.”

“Well, do you want to look at them to make sure?”

“Not really.”

Slamming the packet of pictures on the counter, she says, “Well, lady, all I have is Louisa Gordon’s pictures. So you can either buy these and go home now or you’ll need to resubmit.”

Stupefied that this lady wanted me to BUY someone else’s pictures, I left the store.

People never cease to amaze me.