Just A Talk Among Friends

Dear One Hour Photo Place,
Hi, How are you today? Me? Well, I'm not well, not well at all. You see, I don't feel like I'm the asshole for assuming that you'd have my photos finished within an hour. That is, after all, directly in the name of your business. It's how you advertise. The three words "One Hour Photo" are displayed all freakin' over your store. Now, because the last four times I've developed with you it has taken at least three hours for you to get my stuff done, I knew when I started uploading my photos that it'd take awhile. I was fine with this. I still had to pack up my scrapbooking supplies and drive the 30 minutes on over to Elk City and then unload my boxes. Sure, the other ladies would have a jump start on me, but I would at least get to hear the sailor talk from a bunch of 30 something mommas. Really, no one does pervy quite like my friends.
Since it was 7 pm when I sent the photos to you, I figured I would run up to your store right before you closed at 10 to pick up my stuff. I mean, that's triple the one hour promise. So, you can imagine my complete and utter fucking shock when you told me that they would not be finished until 1 pm today. Seriously, you open at 8. I realize that I did send almost 200 photos. That's a lot, I get it. But, assuming that you are part of a nation wide chain and that the big dicks in your corporate office are pretty obsessed with the now-elusive profit, I would think you probably have to be equipped to print that much relatively quickly. I mean, "One Hour Photo" is all over your store, surely you would be prepared to handle more than one customer in that hour.
Naturally, I would like to ask you if this is some sort of joke. I don't fucking want to be on Punk'd, Ashton. But, since I know in my heart that you are rather serious, I need you to explain to me how the hell it takes you 8 hours to develop 158 pictures. I sincerely think you should change the name of your service to "One Day Photo." Sure, we crazy old ladies in the scrapbooking posse would all be less inclined to use your business, but I also wouldn't be a big bag of swinging hormones wrapped into a ball of pissed off when I did.
So, even though I wanted to spend my time scrapbooking my family's more recent activities, I guess I will just do some random photos from the early part of last year. Having Christmas done by January would have been awesome, it would have. And, if I would have sent my photos to the OTHER "One Hour Photo" place like Miss Smarty Pants Mollie so wisely did, I'm sure I would have got it done. But, I didn't. Quite ignorantly, I held out faith this, this would the time you got it done in a responsible amount of time.
Suck it, assholes.
Love,
Shonda

Dear One Hour Photo Place (again),
Okay, so maybe I'm the asshole. I don't know why I thought I ordered like 158 photos. Somehow I got that first 1 confused with a 7. My bad. Remember that cluttered mess that was your college professor's desk? Yeah, that's my head.
I'm sure you are a little pissed about all that dry sarcasm in the last letter. Man, I was kind of a dick. You see, I haven't been able to scrapbook the last two times the ladies got together because I was photographing weddings. I still have freakin' t-ball to do from this summer. So, I'm gonna blame my nasty behavior on my motherhood insanity. My boys' books are getting kind of behind and I just can't let them grow up without all the shenanigans being well documented, you know, in case I need to use the whole, "Look at what you boys put me through" to keep my old ass out of a third world nursing home because I don't want to forget a moment.
The young girl who was working last night was not nearly as helpful as you, hard working manager. I'm really sorry that I said I was going to the other place. You know I could never leave you. You guys really do take good care of me and I hope you except my sincere apology. I can't believe you are going to have almost 800 photos done by 11 am. WOW!
So, please, don't suck it. I'll suck it. I'm totally the asshole.
Love,
Shonda

Just one more reason I hate the camper

This happened a few days ago, but with all the computer uprisings I've been busy squashing, I forgot to blog about it. One of our two kittens, Sadie Cat, died. If you dig back through the older posts, which you should be doing any damn way, you will find a picture of the furry, black beauty and my baby Rolan in Rolan Little, Urchin of Doom. Our place is no picnic for any animals, especially those whose necks are shaped perfectly for a toting handle. Seriously, Rolan was awe-struck by the efficiency.
Surprisingly, poor Sadie's demise was not at the hand of Rolan or his brother. Rather, she met her end as the result of a plummeting vacuum.
Even though I didn't stay in the damn camper at the recent family reunion and even though I already cleaned up once prior to the trip, washing out all the food, bringing in the supplies and sparkling it up for another year of, well, sitting, was my job. After I sprayed it down with all the fresh smelling, yet toxic cleaning supplies, I vacuumed it once again.
Now as I was in the camper scrubbing away, a brief sprinkling rain fell. While I thought this was a nice, cooling touch to the day, it ended up being a fatal factor for Sadie Cat.
As I was carrying the vacuum back inside our home, Sadie and her sister Sophie tagged along behind me, bouncing playfully beneath my feet. Now, you need to remember that their mother was recently killed before the kittens were weaned, so they are both still quite tiny. Dashing along to finish this chore, my pink flip-flop landed upon the first concrete step onto my porch. However, the remaining moisture made this footing a bit slippery and I fell back a few inches, dropping the vacuum on top of Sadie in the process.
It was awful, truly awful. I instantly jerked the machine, enormous in comparison to her frail body, off her. I knew immediately that this would be fatal. She twitched in pain for a few seconds and it was over. And I felt like a very bad kitty momma.
Ridge came home soon after this incident. Thank goodness he wasn't at home at the time. He has been quite protective of Sophie Cat ever since. Periodically he will chastise me for killing Sadie. With a lowered brow and shaking finger, he reminds me that you have be careful with babies and then demands that I just leave Sophie forever alone.
For the first two days after Sadie went to kitty heaven, Sophie cried at the door. She wandered around the yard and the home looking for her sister. It made me sad, but I think she is fine now. Ridge comforts her with the relentless abuse he calls love.
Clearly, this is just another omen for the dangers of camping. It's like a burning bush or that gypsy who eerily told Julius Caesar, "Beware the Ides of March." Or at least that's the argument I'm gonna use the next time Rowdy tries to drag me out in that bullshit.