The Country Bumpkins visit the Big City

The other day my parents decided to take us on an educational field trip to the King County Courthouse & sheriff's office, so we drove down to Seattle. I was pleased with the idea until we walked through the front door. Then, my spirits went down,

down,

down,

like a brick in quicksand. Wait a minute, that's a really lame, if accurate simile. Oh well.
Anyway, so what was the reason behind this sudden nose-dive off my spirits? I saw that in just inside the building was a metal detector! My eyes widened in fright, and I assumed the stance of a hunted deer.
Let me stop right here. Some people collect butterflies, some spoons, some post cards, some pretty china, and many stamps. What I collect triggers alarms when I pass through metal detectors, and it isn't spoons. I (along with several good friends who shall remain nameless) collect pocket knives. They are very practical and collectible.
"Mom," I whispered, worried that my precious knife would get confiscated like the last one (at an airport,) "I think I'll go sit in the car."
My mother did not take to the idea.
"Ophelia," she said, "This is Seattle, and I'm not going to leave you in the car. Besides, this is a family outing and we are going to stick together. Why do you want to stay in the car?" she began to ask, but then it was her turn to walk through the condemning metal arch. I watched Giles and Ava go through. No one remained but Bracie and me. I smiled at her weakly and faced the inevitable; it was my turn. First, I carefully placed my bag on the moving counter so that it would feed through the scanner. Then, I removed my pocket knife from, guess where, my pocket, and placed in on the tray. Bravely, I stepped through the metal detector and came out without setting off the alarm.

Just after I came through, my bag was sent into the depths of one of those, uh, bag scanners. I knew that my knife in the tray would set off the alarm, but as I waited, I heard the machine omit not one beep, but four! My spirits sank even lower.

Once again, let me stop. I like to wear dresses on nice occasions, but the problem with a dress is that there isn't a place on them to conceal a knife. So, being the ingenious problem solver that I am, I usually stuff a knife in my bag. This would be fine, except that I am horrible of keeping track of things, so I don't always take the knives out.

Anyway, so I stood there, my confidence sinking to rock bottom, and me wishing that I would melt. I knew what would happen. The scanner operator looked at me like I was a raving tearing lunatic.

"Did you know, young lady, that you have four knives in this bag?"

What was I supposed to say? If I protested and claimed that I didn't, I would have sounded guilty. If I had said yes, I'd probably be written down as some serial killer. So, I responded with a weak, "Sort of. Not really," which probably made me sound like both at the same time.

Luckily, I was allowed to keep my precious knives. You do have to give me credit because one of the "knives" wasn't actually a knife; it was a switch-comb that merely resembled a knife. I did feel better about bringing four actually knives and one switch comb into a court house because Bracie brought one too.

Mom looked on at poor me and laughed, exclaiming enthusiastically that we should take pictures. However, Dad was not pleased, and so unfortunately we have no accompaining photos. Maybe next time.