So, I didn’t blog about this when it happened, because, frankly… well, I wasn’t in the mood. Gabe opened the front door one morning last week, and this is what he saw:
What would you think?? A.) Ewwwww!!! B.) Ha, ha! Very funny! One of my friends has SUCH a sense of humor! or C.) Oh my word. Stalker. Someone hates me. Very much. My children are in danger. They can never play outside again.
I kind of waffled back and forth among all three choices. Then I dumped the bag on the floor, looking for a note or something. Nothing. Then I looked for rubber gloves, so I could put the flimsy little things back in the bag. Then I dumped the whole thing in a garbage bag and put it in my closet.
My first thought–twitter, facebook, blog immediately and ask for a confession. My second thought–I’m not playing this game. If it’s someone who hates me, let them suffer in my silence.
Then I forgot all about it.
Fast forward a couple days to Mother’s Day weekend.
Here’s Gabe with his mama (and our girlies):
And me, my girlies, my Dad and his mama:
And my darling niece Isabelle who made my sister Bethany a mama last November after almost 2 years of praying for a baby. The muscular, hairy arm in the picture belongs to Isabelle’s daddy, not her mommy.
And me, my mama and my girlies:
Speaking of my mama, we were chatting about don’t-remember-what, and she says, “Did something happen at your house that you didn’t tell me about?”
Uhhh… no. I’m not pregnant. Nobody got a new raise. No lost teeth. No new pets.
“Not that I know of,” I say.
“Nothing on your doorstep…?”
Are you stinking kidding me?! “You know who put that bag on my doorstep?!?”
Her grin said it all. “We kept waiting for you to write about it on your blog, and you never did…”
It was my cousin, Camy. My cousin Camy who I lovingly wished Happy Birthday to yesterday. My cousin Camy who lived a mile from me when we were growing up and lives just a couple miles from me now. My cousin Camy who loves a good prank and who apparently has a lot of old undies she doesn’t wear anymore. Camy who loves me and is not a stalker. Whew!
I’ll get her back one of these days. Because, you see, I now have in my possession 47 pairs of her old underwear. The possibilities are endless. I welcome any and all (clean, moral, cheap) suggestions.
You owe me a meal at Chipotle, Carol. (Her hubby works for Chipotle corporate here in town.) And Carol? C.A.M.Y. is actually an acronym for Camy’s real name–Carol Ann Marie Yoder. Her last name is Ashley now. I should probably start calling her Camya. You can call me MR. T.
Anyway. Joke’s on me.
Hope your Wednesday is delightful in every way!