There’s nothing like a little mother/daughter shopping time. This time, though, we were shopping at Best. Not the Best Buy most of us know today. The ‘old’ Best, where you placed your order for a household item by submitting a ticket. When your name was called, your item was ready for pick-up.

As Mom and I perused the aisles, waiting to be called for pick-up, a voice came over the speaker system. The woman, who sounded more like a giddy girl, was caught in the middle of a laughing fit. She’d not been able to contain herself once she’d apparently mustered up enough composure to attempt announcing the order.

I looked at my mother, who was inspecting yet another “Ethyl,” the term of endearment she’d given to her beloved wall-hung letter organizer. “Ethyl” was strategically placed on the wall in the hallway at home next to “Fred,” the floor-based coat tree.

Mom glanced at me as the woman continued trying to read the order over the speaker system. The glint in her eye gave her away instantly.

“You didn’t,” I said, eyeing her suspiciously.

She turned her head back to “Ethyl,” hiding her smirk as best as possible.

The speaker lady finally managed to very choppily state her business between fits: “Wilma…Flintstone…your…order…is ready for pick-up.”