Seventy-Six Trombones.

Every time I enter Walmart, Belk, Best Buy, or pretty much any store with the security sensors at the entrance/exit, the store alarm goes off. Regardless of whether I have my keys, cell, excessive bling, or whatnot. Regardless of whether I've stashed stolen goods in my purse. Just checking to see if y'all are really reading. My favorite Walmart greeter, Herschel, says it's because I have a heart of gold. Aw. Thanks, Mr. Herschel. Clearly he doesn't know me very well.
I digress.

Last night as I entered Hellmart (ahem!), the blaring nuisance announced my presence, as per usual. I barely glanced at the greeter behind me, but said offhandedly, "Yep, it's me. I'm here!"

And as per usual, the second I passed through those same sensors while exiting Hellmart, the blaring nuisance started up once again. Seriously, it's my superstore anthem. President Bush has "Hail to the Chief." I have "Bleep-bleep-bleep-bleep-bleep!"

This time the greeter hurried over to me. A greeter I'd never seen before. I launch into my prepared speech: "It's just me...they go off all the time when I walk through..." He pokes and prods through my purchases, asking, "Did you buy any DVDs? CDs? Video games?" Of course not. It's just me!

He then inquires about my sweatshirt. "So, are you a Georgia fan?" Why yes--it's the reason I'm wearing this red hoodie, "GEORGIA" emblazoned across my chest. Mr. Greeter then asks, "You are so familiar. Where do I know you? What's your name?" I'm very polite in my response...."I'm Leigh Anne Litton. I'm in here twice a week, or maybe you know my husband, Scott." I wait for the obligatory, "Oh yeah--he's my doctor," or "I know Scott Sr." because I hear both of these statements at least once a week, from various lifelong residents of this little mountain town.

But Mr. Greeter gets all sparkly-eyed with recognition and says:
Wait a minute...you're the one who sets off the sensors every time! Yeah, that's where I know you from! Man, oh man! Do you have a...you know...well, any metal in you anywhere?"

Kid. You. Not. Dude went there. He certainly did.

I refer Mr. Greeter to Herschel--and his assessment of my heart of gold. And then I ran from Hellmart, practically channeling Dale Earnhardt, Jr. with my cart speed. Scott would be so proud!

My fame has proceeded me, y'all. In Walmart. With the greeters and the alarm system. I cannot make this stuff up.

{I couldn't resist. }