The Bloghead Bone Hop… Err… That is…

Welcome to the third Bonehead Blog Hop!  This is the (very) original idea of Cherdo, who makes you laugh and then think, and once you click away, think  She sure is NOT a bonehead!
(Official disclaimer: we’re laughing at ourselves: why don’t you join us?)
Your hosts are Cherdo, of Cherdo on the Flipside.
And me (Diana Wilder)
Our motto: 
“Confession is good for the soul…it may not 
be your soul, but trust me – it’s good for someone’s soul.”
So…  What boneheaded thing should I confess to this time?
(The easier question is ‘what boneheaded thing should I not confess to?’ )
I BEG your pardon!

Telling the grandmother of a friend, who was proudly showing me the granny square afghan that she had made for my friend, in cathedral window colors, which, she said, ‘I want her to have something to remember me for!’ and responding with a gracious smile, “Oh, you won’t be hard to forget!”  and wondering why the smile had faded from the sweet lady’s face.

There was a time, a while back, when I did some part time work for Bloomingdale’s department store.  It was Christmas season, and I needed the money for gifts.  I was young(er), healthy, and a little oblivious.  To get into and leave Bloomies, we had to go in through a steel door on the side of the building (it involved climbing up a flight of outside metal steps) and flashing our badge as we went in.  We left the same way.

We were told, by the way, that we had to park at the very edge of the supermall parking lot.  I told them that I would do nothing of the kind, since I didn’t want to get mugged leaving at 11:30 PM on a holiday season night.

Eating what?

At any rate, I happened to notice bags of rolls and pastries when I was leaving each night, and I thought, “Oh, how generous!”  and helped myself to one every time as I left.  The security staff gave me ‘the hairy eyeball’, but no one said nothing until one day, a week and a half in, a coworker (in her case ‘cow orker’) said, “Why are you eating that?”

“They’re left-overs for the staff,” I said.  At her expression I said, “…aren’t they?”
“No, they’re not!  They’re to be taken to homeless shelters!  You could be arrested!”

Mouth-palm.  Worse than face-palm.

Well, we live and learn.  Dad might have laughed.  Or not.  He might, actually, have asked where his sweet roll was.


Go visit the hop!