Embarrassing Moment

I may have to number these "Embarrassing Moment" posts as there are many, many of them. It's just a matter of how strong I am. How much am I willing to share with my Internet audience of five?

Last summer, I had taken the kids up to visit my in-laws, while Seven stayed behind to relive the glory days of bachelorhood work. I was only there for two weeks, so I brought a little cash and a debit card, which Seven assured me had money on it. The town of Alta is no shopper's paradise, so I didn't need much.

Fast forward to a cold, blustery summer afternoon in Alta.

Laney and I had gone to the town center to do a little shopping. I saw some things for Nicky's upcoming 4th birthday that I wanted to pick up. I took my selections to the counter. While the salesclerk rang up my items -- *sniff, sniff* -- I noticed a familiar, yet unpleasant, smell coming from Laney's direction. Just great. She needed a diaper change. She was also rifling through the selection of sweets that the store had infuriatingly left within her one-year-old reach, and no amount of "put that back" would do. I was beginning to sweat. Well, we were out of there in a minute.

"Your card's been declined."

"Huh?" Seven had told me we had money in that account. It must be a mistake. Flustered, I tried the card again. The stench of Laney's diaper contents was wafting through the cashier area and filling the space as a line formed behind me. The card was declined again. While I was otherwise distracted, Laney had managed to open a few of the chocolate pieces she was playing with. I looked down to see her munching quietly, her little face and hands smeared with stolen chocolate -- stolen because I didn't have any cash on me.

Red-faced and ashamed, I tried to explain in my broken Norwegian that I didn't have cash and had to come back. The girl just looked at me. She was young, probably 18, with little empathy for a foreign mother who couldn't pay for her items or speak the language or control her child who, incidentally, stank to high heaven.

I stammered an incomprehensible apology and backed my way out of the store, trying to maneuver my giant Norwegian stroller, roughly the size of a small bus, and my poo-smelling, chocolate-covered daughter past the other people in line. Had the store somehow shrunk during this time? Why was I suddenly banging into people and displays? Everyone was now staring at me. I think people might have stopped to gape in at the store windows. I can't remember. It's all a blur now.

When I was able to call my husband, I explained what happened, worried that something might be wrong with the card. Such naivete.

"I transferred money this morning, let me check," I heard him typing and clicking on the other end.

"Oh."

Never a good sign. I could feel myself getting all sweaty again.

"The money from this morning hasn't gone through. Sometimes, it takes 24 hours," he told me from his nice, pleasant office many, many, many miles away. "I'll transfer money from a different account, and it'll go in right away."

WHY THE HELL DIDN'T HE TRANSFER THE MONEY FROM THE "INSTANT" ACCOUNT IN THE FIRST PLACE??????? Gee, wasn't that 24-hour time delay something that he could have thought to mention a little earlier? I didn't say anything.

We have more effectively opened the channels of communication on this front, but I'm warning him now. Karma's a bitch, my man. Karma IS a bitch.

Just for a fun. A picture from that fateful trip.


The kids with their grandparents (Bestemor and Bestefar).