Let me first say that it is incredibly humid in the New York City area. As a transplant from St. Louis, the humidity really wouldn't be something that would normally bother me, except that I have added to my considerable girth (sadly no height to go along with it), so when my thighs rub together, if I were wearing parachute pants....it would be something akin to the Sally Field taking flight with her cornette (yes, that is what her habit was actually called). However, in my case, it would be a lot less majestic looking. I can just imagine the people screaming and running in terror, although I'm fairly certain some of the Queens living in the area would be doing so simply because of the fact that I was wearing parachute pants.
This is where some witty transition sentence should be inserted...but I couldn't think of anything....so moving on.
So I arrive at Target (said with a snotty French accent...for effect)...color me Julia Child....
I have with me monster #1, the boy-crazy-tom-boy-thing, and monster #2, the chicken-legs-monster. At 11 and 8, there are such a joy to be around sometimes. Chicken-legs-monster (CLM) has a particular problem with her face, mainly that she wears her feelings on it (she comes by it honestly, because I'm notorious for the same damn thing). Boy-crazy-tom-boy-thing (BCTBT) is developing acne and just developing in general.
Our trip is marked by the fact that I will purchasing with BCTBT, brassieres. She already has some, but they are sports bras and she needs some regular ones. Obviously, being male, its not like I'm going to go in with her. I have to rely on her own judgment (this is where I get screwed, as you will find out later). I tell her to make sure its snug, but not tight and not loose. I think I would have been more comfortable showing them both how to put a condom on a fucking banana. I don't have issues with women's under garments, just that a girl, even a tom boy needs some privacy and understanding. That will qualify as my one and only nod to Parenting 101...at least for now. That was fairly error free, although I felt my brain slowly melting into my shoes as I waited for what seemed like an eternity for her to complete this expedition in the women's changing room.
It was upon leaving said store with the gigantic bulls eye on it that I discovered A) I had forgotten a specific beverage for a specific boyfriend who has been feeling unspecifically under the weather....(even though the sound of it is something quite atrocious).
..........................oh, please be aware that I often break into song mentally or I am reminded about things via song lyrics. Its sort of like tying a ribbon around your finger, but in my case its more like having a treble-clef shoved up my ass.
B) Two other items were, in fact, the wrong size. BCTBT is not really cognizant of her surroundings, much like I am not cognizant as I head into the abyss at the bottom of a quart of ice cream. She is 11 and quite normal in size and shape for age so 10/12 is the way to go. I had to bite my tongue (nearly off) as I opened a bag to find size 6x shorts....seriously what the fuck? So, I decided to let her take this moment to learn from her mistake by telling me what was wrong. Fifteen minutes later, as I'm melting (standing by the kitchen, where lunch is brewing), she says "I don't know". That's it..I DON'T KNOW. Later you will hear about my mommy dearestesque moment from about two months ago. I asked her to try them on and that's when she caught on or possibly caught wind of my slightly annoyed infused breath and discovered that HEY, they are the wrong size.
The aftermath of this that I have two pairs of the wrong size shorts to exchange. Honestly, part of the blame falls on me for not checking. My annoyance is more so that I absolutely hate returning things. I don't like waiting, I don't like the eyes darting back from the item I'm returning to me. Call it a neurosis it you like, but I DON'T return things...I just don't, well...I do, but I would rather soon have dental work done.
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