Alas, none of us are in the photos. "Next year," says we, "we'll remember our cameras.
In any event, we went to the game. Ordered the tickets via telephone too late to be mailed, so we were retrieving them at the event. Per the telephone instructions, we presented ourselves at Gate 1, photo ID in hand. No tickets there. I persevered, insisting on speaking to all four employees at the window. Carrie was becoming increasingly nervous that I would explode --do the whole Mama Bear routine and everything. But I didn't. Why? Because I am woman!
In any event, Gate 1 advised that we needed to go to Gate 9. Carrie and I hauled off to Gate 9, halfway around the stadium. Whereupon we were advised to return to Gate 1 for our tickets.
Carrie cowered there in the rain, shielding herself from the inevitable falling debris.
What did I do? Very calmly said, "No. No we don't pick up our tickets at Gate 1. I spoke to each and every employee at Gate 1, and the tickets are not there. We pick them up at Gate 9."
At this point, Carrie thinks that perhaps the Second Coming is imminent. After all, I remained calm in the face of this adversity.
The hapless employee just looked at me blankly, discerned accurately that I was not moving, and started talking to people there at the "will call" gate. Are we surprised that the tickets were indeed to be retrieved from Gate 9? Not a bit. Are we surprised that I was as calm and collected as I was? Not me. As I explained to Carrie on the way back to Gate 1, the point of talking to everyone at Gate 1 was to be able to assure the folks at Gate 9 that I was indeed at the right place to pick up my tickets, saving myself having to do the table-tennis routine of bouncing from Gate 1 to Gate 9 to Gate 1 to Gate 9 ad nauseum. Speaking sternly to the folks at Gate 1 insured that I would be able to talk to each and every one of them. (I noted her filing this battle tactic away carefully. I hope and pray that it won't come back to haunt me.)
With tickets in hand, we waltzed past the ticket-takers and proceeded to the goody table. After all, the goody bag was the whole reason for being there, right? Baseball? Did someone say something about baseball?
Apparently there had been some hype about the large dollar value of the bag contents. I wasn't aware of that, so I couldn't be disappointed about the contents of the bag. My bag:
Three nice pattern books, a handful of tear-off patterns (available from any Michael's, Wal-Mart or Zellers), a Soak sample, a free admission to the Creative Festival in October, and a ball of yarn. Where's the yarn? Here!
Carrie had much the same bag as mine, although her magazines were different. I received the purple-ish 100 gr. ball of Sirdar, which Carrie promptly started knitting into a scarf for a certain cousin's Christmas gift. Purple and glitter. What more could a young lady want? She scored the two balls of Sirdar Legends DK ... very nice looking yarn and she has proudly added it to her stash. (Hmm. Note to self--I should get a photo of her stash. It's so cute -- and tiny!) She also got a ticket to the Creative Festival and we are planning a girls' day out in October, providing she doesn't get scheduled to work that day.So the game started and the Jays promptly fell behind. About the beginning of the 7th inning, friend Irene leaned over and said to me, "We could make the 9:13 train if we left now." I thought about it for a minute or less and decided that I was just fine--the night was young and hope still springs eternal.
In the bottom of the 9th inning, the Jays tied the game. It had become quite apparent that Irene and Kathy were far more devoted baseball fans than Carrie and I. I had a feeling I was in trouble, but I had to ask. I leaned over to Irene and said, "So what's your position on extra innings?" To which she calmly and quickly replied, "The last train doesn't leave until midnight."
Fortunately the Jays came through with a nice base hit and brought two runners in to win the game. Whew!
All in all, it was a great evening and one that certainly bears repeating. Next year I'll promote it a bit heavier at the store and see if we can get a larger gang down there.
And an update vis-a-vis the bully employer. It is most fortunate that Doug and I are friends with lawyers. If the paycheque does not arrive in the mail by tomorrow (if it was in fact mailed on Monday as the owner claimed it would be, Friday should be plenty of time), the lawyer will send a written demand for payment along with an outline of the next steps which will be taken. The lawyer actually liked the idea of a picket line, but Carrie isn't quite that brazen.
Yet.
After all, she IS my daughter.
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