Underwire+Armpit=Sucks.

Ok, so I buy cheap Target bras. I do not have the energy or desire to devote time to actually washing bras the way they should be washed. I don't put them in a little bag, I don't wash them on the "lingerie" cycle, I don't lay them flat to dry. Sorry, suckers, but you're getting thrown in the washer with my jeans and Tate's shirt with the dried green bean/chocolate/snot stain on it. Enjoy.



So because I abuse my bras, they feel justification in abusing me right back and springing forth the underwire from the side of the cup just so it can poke me in the armpit all. day. long. And since my laziness knows no bounds and thus prevents me from actually walking the 15 feet to my bathroom trash can at the end of the day when I take the bra off, I am forced, forced to just throw it in the hamper along with all the other dirty clothes. Then of course it gets washed, ends up back in my drawer, and sticking me in the armpit again. What a bastard. Normally I wouldn't feel the need to talk about my jackass undergarments, but the jerkwad is poking me in the armpit as I type.


So apparently I'm on some sort of crack, because I decided it would be just a keen idea to take both kids to the grocery store at 5 pm, which is when we usually eat dinner. The only reason I felt this insanity was justified is that I had no food to actually prepare for dinner, so the kids could either be whiny and crabby at home, or I could take them out and spread the whininess and crabbiness all about the land for everyone to see.


Somehow Tate manged to trip over my feet from behind as we were walking into the store and catapulted himself headfirst into the wall. He did not get hurt. He then dashed over to the spaceship cart and tried to climb up in it. The cart was no match for his ponderosity and tipped over onto him. He got up with nary a scratch. He reached for a jumbo-sized bottle of olive oil and got conked on the noggin. Didn't even notice. It's like the kid has an invisible shield around him. Either that or he's just not that observant. Although he did observe that Mom refused to let him climb into the salad bar and writhe amongst the lettuce and cucumber slices, and subsequently voiced his displeasure in the form of shrieking like a pterodactyl. He knows what's important, I guess.


Nora, on the other hand, observed quite astutely that we were not at home, she was not in her highchair, and food was not getting shoveled into her mouth at Mach-3 speed. Therefore, she took no delay in informing all of us poor innocent grocery shoppers that she was really, really PISSED OFF. At one point I had two pterodactyls in the Spaceship Cart of Doom and I was about to just stick them in the refrigerated food aisle among the yogurt and cream cheese and just call it a day.

Then I get home, realize I already had half the items I went to the store to get, tried to make fajitas but failed magnificently (the seasoning tasted like rubber gloves rubbed with feet sweat) and gave up. I slapped some shredded cheese in between a tortilla, microwaved it, threw some green beans in a bowl, microwaved them, and presented the kidlets with a gourmet meal a' la Frazzled Mother. I had a peanut butter cookie. It would have been delish, except there was a fair amount of salsa splashed on it from my fajita experiment. I did not notice the glob of salsa and therefore shoved the entire cookie in my mouth. Peanut Butter+Salsa=regurgitation.