Tate unlocked my cage last weekend and let me out long enough to do a little shopping.
“One hour, woman! That’s all. You need to return to cook us dinner and bathe my feet with your hair.”
So I rushed out into the wonderful world of the outdoor mall. This was one of those shopping excursions that I really could have used a money tree or a sugar daddy. Everything was ON SALE! and IN MY SIZE! and CUTE!
I neeeeeeeded a new outfit to wear to the conference in Nashville this coming weekend. Not a thing in my closet would do. (Those jeans are so totally [not] a size 4.)
Another purchase I made was underwear, not to be confused with panties. I simply do not have the ass or the patience for panties.
I really DID DESPERATELY NEED new underwear. The state of my sorry underwear drawer is actually the subject of a post I’ve had in draft for OVER A YEAR. Even though the post has been in draft for a year, my underwear has actually needed replacing since I graduated from college in 1999.
Seven pairs for the price of six! A pair for every day of the week! And yes they’re packaged underwear and not the fancy schmancy kind from Victoria’s Secret (read: Not on sale or *cough* in my gargantuan size *cough*).
Not everything I bought was for me. I did buy the kids new shoes.
Vans! Because Carson is such a skater dude.
I think all little girls need sparkly pink shoes. In fact, even big girls with spare tires around their middle sections (me!) and cellulite (me!) would like their own pair if only they came in bigger sizes.
See, my realtor wasn’t all bad.