I was standing in the mall buying ribbon at 75% off, about eighth back in line, when I saw a guy with a camera. I assumed it was the typical news story about day after Christmas bargain hunters, and it was. I turned my attention back to balancing my armload of beautiful wired ribbon when I was approached by a reporter who asked me questions, and, as I do when I get a little nervous, I kept talking.
The next day, when I was at my mother’s birthday party in the metropolitan Detroit area, I told my family I had been in the paper a that morning.
“Did you kill somebody?” they asked.
“Nope. I bought ribbon.”
“Must have been a slow news day.”
“She was on the front page, too,” my husband said.
“Honey, I thought we had to move to Tennessee for a quiet lifestyle, but it turns out we just have to move to Lansing,” my nephew said to his wife.
Even so, my son and I decided that in my leather coat and dark clothing (and obscured face) I looked like the baddest-ass, ribbon-buying mom in the mall.
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