What happens when your new favorite shirt makes you look like the back of an SUV?

You post it on your blog. That's what.

I FINALLY got out of the house for some "me" shopping. The therapeutic kind that is absent of the constant, IDON'TWANTTOGOINTHATSTOREIWANTTOTHROWYOURHARD
EARNEDMONEYINTOTHEWATERFOUNTAIN
OOOHHHCANIHAVEACOOKIE?
WHENAREWELEAVING?IWANTTOPUSHMYOWNSTROLLER!

The only thing that would have made it better would have been an extra wad of Benny's in my wallet. No go. I was on a limited budget. A frugal spender I would be!

I didn't even GO IN White House Black Market. Don't worry, I'm not sick or anything. I just have my eye on a few things which are going to require me to S-A-V-E.

I found this shirt.









I know, it doesn't really look like me. Except for the black. And the white. It took a lot of pickitupping and putitbacking before I decided to takeithome.

I wore it once.

The VERY SAME DAY I saw THIS. In two different places in the SAME DAY.










The shirt is in my closet. Where it will stay. For eternity. Or until I can forget about the ass-end of this truck.

Bow Your Head

Scene: Eva's bedroom at bedtime two days before Christmas.

Eva (hands folded in prayer): Dear Jesus, please help my Mama not pick her nose so Santa will bring her presents.

Yes, Jesus. Please help me with that little problem.

What Saved Me

Last Friday night was Eva's Christmas program. Eva's Christmas program. Not mine.

But guess who ended up on stage. Singing. In front of real live people who were laughing because I cannot sing. Nor can I sing The Twelve Days of Christmas even if you only give me a small part. A part which only consists of "...and a partridge in a pear tree". But one that has to be repeated TWELVE times. With a microphone.

Good thing I was wearing these.




Thank you, Me for dragging an unwilling three-year-old to the mall in the rain on Thursday evening to buy them because I listened to my conscience the last time and left the store without them. Poor babies.

Eff Up

I'm not even going to sugar-coat this one:

I went to "meet" Santa today at Toys R Us. It was a very successful trip despite the near-to-tears cell-phone conversation I had with my mother while trying to decide which computer game was going to catapult Eva into a degree of learning ability that will guarantee her a Pulitzer prize by the age of 30. I finished out the trip with only two other incidents which had me gridlocked in the Barbie Princess aisle for more minutes than necessary.

After the nonsense and the continuing ability to maintain the steady stream of tinsel shooting out of my butt and a holly jolly smile on my face for the entire time I stood in line with all the penny whores clutching walmart sale papers to compare whose price was better, I headed over to Chick-fil-A for my new crack: a char grilled chicken salad. I made it through the traffic with more than a few middle fingers pointed in my direction only to discover that I had left my purse. In the shopping cart. At Toys-R-Us. Full of cash.

Thank you to the two sweet old ladies who found it and took it to the manager.

I'm ashamed to admit that I was CONVINCED there wasn't an ounce of morality left in anyone else on the planet and was resolved that my purse, my money, 13 barbie shoes, a bracelet made by a homeless child, several puffs with lotion tissues, the last tube of my discontinued Clinique lip gloss and my adored Coconut Lime Verbena hand sanitizer was on it's way to a fate I can't stomach.

Bless their little old hearts. I almost made out with them.