It's freaking DAY 18! DAY 18, people. WTF?! Isn't this phenomenon supposed to be happening less frequently? Did my uterus miss that memo?
It certainly explains why on Sunday the nice sales lady at Nordstom insisted that, at least at that particular moment, my new bra size included the letter D. She and I both shook our heads at that and declared me a Boob Anomaly. You know, one of those people who measures herself the way the good people at Victoria's Secret say to, and in spite of the fact that I have obvious breasts, sometimes I wind up measuring a negative cup size. Like if there could really ever be a -AA.
So I happily took my new (half-price) D bras home. Happy because, at least right now I have only two breasts, instead of the four I sometimes sport because I am apparently wearing ill-fitting foundation garments.
Or the phases of the moon have made things, well, changeable.
So to summarize, while we were at Easton Town Center, I got two bras, and the girls each got a new long-sleeved t-shirt. Yes, the Anniversary Sale is happening at Nordstrom, but in this Current Economic Climate, it seems imprudent to be my normal Nordstrom Free Wheelin' Self.
I didn't even buy anything in the cosmetics department.
The cosmetics department!
My "Home Planet," according to The Spouse.
Really, he says that. I had a make over once in 1998 and had just bought a new camera and the nice woman who applied my paint took a picture of me and I gave it to The Spouse because it really is a good picture of me. (I used to go get makeovers before I got my driver's license renewed too, because, after all, the photo is for what? Four years or something?) For a time it sat on his desk at work, and one day a colleague, clearly a single man, asked him, "Where is your wife in this photo?" and he said, "Her home planet. Otherwise known as the cosmetics department of any major department store."
I looked, Loyal Beatnik. But I did not see anything that moved me to open my purse.
It was in this frame of mind that I dragged the girls and my mother over to Roll: to look at bikes for Baboo. I had promised her a bike for her birthday. In fact, I had promised her this bike.
However, since making that original promise, belts have tightened Chez Beet. I was feeling guilty about spending that much money on a bike the child would only ride until the end of August and then certainly outgrow if not this year, then certainly next year. (If you must know, I ended up buying her this bike the next day. Which she preferred because it came in pink. And I preferred because it was a much better price.)
Meanwhile, Skittles, who was already feeling slighted because we had not lunched at The Cheesecake Factory, was jonesing for a stop at Build-A-Bear Workshop.
Let me preface this by saying two things:
1. Recently, Skittles had a nightmare that she lived in an orphanage. In her dream, I worked in the orphanage. And although I was still her mother, in the dream, I refused to take her home with me. Oh, and I seemed to be somehow responsible for the untimely passing of The Spouse in this dream as well. Having sent him out to drive somewhere in bad weather.
2. I have taken them both to Build-A-Bear Workshop. In Moscow. And bought them each a bear. Or cat. Or something. Whatever it was they wanted. IN MOSCOW, PEOPLE!
So we pass a mother and child. The boy is carrying his Patented Build-A-Bear box. The cardboard bear house that tells all other children, "Look! My parents love me! They dropped unreasonable amounts of money on a freakin' stuffed animal. Because they looooove me! Your parents do not love you."
Oh, and the icing on the cake: his mom was carrying a bag of leftovers from The Cheesecake Factory.
Where we did not eat lunch.
Because we ate lunch at Nordstrom.
Which is a pretty fine place to have lunch, people.
I saw Skittles sizing up the Lucky Kid Who Had a New Build-A-Bear and a Cheesecake Factory Cheesecake Sugar Buzz.
I did. I could see it.
And I decided to mess with her.
I said, "You see that boy with the Build-A-Bear box and the leftovers from The Cheesecake Factory?"
She pretended she hadn't noticed.
"He's an orphan," I said. "And that lady he's with works at the orphanage and brought him to the mall today on an outing. He got a Build-A-Bear and lunch at The Cheesecake Factory, but now he has to go back to the orphanage!"
She was unconvinced.
We passed two other kids, siblings, holding their Build-A-Bear boxes while they waited in line at Auntie Anne's Soft Pretzels.
I'm not making that up. That really is the name of the pretzel pusher.
From Garlic to Glazin Raisin and plump twists to stix, nobody does piping hot soft pretzels like Auntie Anne’s!
That's a quote from their website.
I point out the siblings, and I say, "See? They're from the orphanage, too! It's Orphanage Outing Day!"
She remained skeptical.
In fact, she probably went right home and put pins in that little voodoo doll of me she keeps under her bed.
Because I got my period on Day 18.
That's what I got for telling her that.