Yesterday my sister and I went zooming about in our little tin can Hyundai Elantra with one mission in mind: find the Party Station. Our Mother has reached that age whence birthdays are of Particular Significance. We therefore wanted it to be custom coordinated. The party section at the local grocer would hardly do. We needed the specialists.
First, we called Free 411:
Computer: "City and State?"
Me: Hudson, Ohio
Computer: "Hobson, Ohio."
Me: Hudson.
Computer: "I'm sorry. Can you repeat that?"
Me: Hudson.
Computer: "Hobson, Ohio."
After about twenty minutes of wailing, hair-pulling and hollering into the cell phone, we extricated driving directions. They led us to a windowless building wrapped in beige siding. An electric sign out front announced: "Congratulations Erica and Dave!"
Yes. Free 411 gave us directions, not to The Party Station, purveyors of balloons, streamers, and birthday candles, but to a party station, which had been rented out that very afternoon to celebrate the great day in which Dave and Erica became one flesh.
Having wasted three-fourths of the afternoon in a fruitless hunt for celebration supplies, we decided to give up being Independent Women. Our father guided us to the correct location, and we made it 15 minutes before closing.
Mission accomplished. Moral of the story: Pay for 411.
Roger that.
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