"It's so fluffy, I'm gonna DIE!"
† I am uninspired by the blue strawberry. *frowns* Everything I've started out writing is blerghy. I do like the quote, though. Also, did not get kicked out on the first round. *confetti throw*
† Mosquitoes are from the devil. I've been having a weird reaction to them this year. The bite area gets really red and swollen and hot, and then it hurts for a few days. Also - bug spray is gross.
† Made strawberry balsamic jam, two batches of blueberry peach, and plain peach jam over the past few days. I think I'm done being the pioneer woman, for awhile.
† It's impossible to keep my home clean and orderly with the boys home. They are a whirling tornado of sloppiness that have waaaaay more energy than I do. If I told them to clean up every mess they make, I'd just be cleaning constantly. And yelling all the time... so... School starts in a month. *nods*
† My house is too big. By the time I'm done really giving it a good go, cleaning wise, it's time to start over. No, Nolan, I don't want to move.
† Saw Despicable Me Friday with the kiddos. I laughed a little, I suppose. And little Agnes was cuuuuute ("It's so fluffy, I'm gonna DIE!"), but overall, I'd give it a meh.
† My mom's in Russia right now, and they didn't take their cell phones or laptop, so are unreachable for the next 10 days. It's not like I NEED my mother; I'm 37 years old for crying out loud, but knowing I can't talk to her is irritating. She and Tom are taking a cruise down a river in Russia, though. Sounds cool, right?
And now, for your reading pleasure, here's a story in which I humiliate both myself and a fourteen year-old boy simultaneously. *curtsies*
So a few weeks ago, I was carrying boxes into the post office and a big gust of wind (as we are wont to have here on the high plains) blew the skirt of my sundress up. I flashed some older gentleman and one middle aged lady a view of my leopard print panties, blushed at the guy holding open the door for me, and conducted my business without any further embarrassment.
That's not the story I want to tell. It does INFORM this one, though.
So the other day I hurriedly dress after the pool, I throw on a bra and panties and a sundress. I pick one whose skirt will NOT fly up, should I encounter any stiff breezes, and go to the grocery store. Just as I was wheeling my very full cart to the checkout, I felt something go "pop" and metal hit my face.
It was my bra strap.
The brassiere I'd chosen was one of those fancy affairs from Victoria's Secret - a model they call their "Very Sexy." Which, you know, would be fine, if the little straps stayed fastened to the bra like they're supposed to. When they don't, the lopsided look that happens is decidedly NOT "Very Sexy." Very Disturbing, maybe, but not sexy.
So rather than leave my cart of full groceries outside the restroom, go in, disrobe completely and fix the stupid bra strap, I decide I'm going to tough it out and pay, get in my car and go home, rest of the errands be damned.
So I do.
Almost.
I put my purse over that shoulder, to sort of camoflage the fact that the bra strap is flailing around my shoulder; I tuck it in and sort of put my arm across my chest. At this point, I'm sure I look like Quasimodo's little sister, but I'm soldiering on. Eye on the prize. Get to the car.
The bag boy is barely old enough to work; seriously, the kid looked YOUNG. I was helping him put all fourteen million of the bags in the back of the Sequoia, and he was chatting happily, oblivious to the fact that one of my arms was a chicken wing, holding up my unratcheted breast. I was about to close the back when he picks something up off the ground and says, "Oh, you dropped this."
It was the effing bra strap. It had come undone on both sides and fell on the asphalt while I was unloading the grocery sacks.
He looked at it.
He looked at me.
Then he looked at my boobs. His eyes widened.
He shoved the strap at me, I took it and we both blushed scarlet.
Nothing more was said.
I hope he didn't think I was some old woman pervert, suggesting something in the parking lot with a "Very Sexy" bra strap snare.
*Giggles* That's just ridiculous. Hang on and let me wipe my eyes free of all the tears from crying so hard at the thought. Or crying because more people than I want to in this town have seen my lingerie this month.
I'm going to try and make August 'wardrobe malfunction free'.
† Mosquitoes are from the devil. I've been having a weird reaction to them this year. The bite area gets really red and swollen and hot, and then it hurts for a few days. Also - bug spray is gross.
† Made strawberry balsamic jam, two batches of blueberry peach, and plain peach jam over the past few days. I think I'm done being the pioneer woman, for awhile.
† It's impossible to keep my home clean and orderly with the boys home. They are a whirling tornado of sloppiness that have waaaaay more energy than I do. If I told them to clean up every mess they make, I'd just be cleaning constantly. And yelling all the time... so... School starts in a month. *nods*
† My house is too big. By the time I'm done really giving it a good go, cleaning wise, it's time to start over. No, Nolan, I don't want to move.
† Saw Despicable Me Friday with the kiddos. I laughed a little, I suppose. And little Agnes was cuuuuute ("It's so fluffy, I'm gonna DIE!"), but overall, I'd give it a meh.
† My mom's in Russia right now, and they didn't take their cell phones or laptop, so are unreachable for the next 10 days. It's not like I NEED my mother; I'm 37 years old for crying out loud, but knowing I can't talk to her is irritating. She and Tom are taking a cruise down a river in Russia, though. Sounds cool, right?
And now, for your reading pleasure, here's a story in which I humiliate both myself and a fourteen year-old boy simultaneously. *curtsies*
So a few weeks ago, I was carrying boxes into the post office and a big gust of wind (as we are wont to have here on the high plains) blew the skirt of my sundress up. I flashed some older gentleman and one middle aged lady a view of my leopard print panties, blushed at the guy holding open the door for me, and conducted my business without any further embarrassment.
That's not the story I want to tell. It does INFORM this one, though.
So the other day I hurriedly dress after the pool, I throw on a bra and panties and a sundress. I pick one whose skirt will NOT fly up, should I encounter any stiff breezes, and go to the grocery store. Just as I was wheeling my very full cart to the checkout, I felt something go "pop" and metal hit my face.
It was my bra strap.
The brassiere I'd chosen was one of those fancy affairs from Victoria's Secret - a model they call their "Very Sexy." Which, you know, would be fine, if the little straps stayed fastened to the bra like they're supposed to. When they don't, the lopsided look that happens is decidedly NOT "Very Sexy." Very Disturbing, maybe, but not sexy.
So rather than leave my cart of full groceries outside the restroom, go in, disrobe completely and fix the stupid bra strap, I decide I'm going to tough it out and pay, get in my car and go home, rest of the errands be damned.
So I do.
Almost.
I put my purse over that shoulder, to sort of camoflage the fact that the bra strap is flailing around my shoulder; I tuck it in and sort of put my arm across my chest. At this point, I'm sure I look like Quasimodo's little sister, but I'm soldiering on. Eye on the prize. Get to the car.
The bag boy is barely old enough to work; seriously, the kid looked YOUNG. I was helping him put all fourteen million of the bags in the back of the Sequoia, and he was chatting happily, oblivious to the fact that one of my arms was a chicken wing, holding up my unratcheted breast. I was about to close the back when he picks something up off the ground and says, "Oh, you dropped this."
It was the effing bra strap. It had come undone on both sides and fell on the asphalt while I was unloading the grocery sacks.
He looked at it.
He looked at me.
Then he looked at my boobs. His eyes widened.
He shoved the strap at me, I took it and we both blushed scarlet.
Nothing more was said.
I hope he didn't think I was some old woman pervert, suggesting something in the parking lot with a "Very Sexy" bra strap snare.
*Giggles* That's just ridiculous. Hang on and let me wipe my eyes free of all the tears from crying so hard at the thought. Or crying because more people than I want to in this town have seen my lingerie this month.
I'm going to try and make August 'wardrobe malfunction free'.