Pickled Undies….

 Writing this book would be put on hold once again yesterday in place of grocery shopping.

I left the house with car-seat baby and headed to the store. It’s strange how having just one child with me now seems like a walk in the park whereas, seven years ago, with my first, I needed a walker and two handlers.

I strolled up and down the aisles, taking my time, humming to the grocery store muzak, loading up with tasty finds with an empty 5 gallon water jug waiting to be returned. Sadly, I was oblivious to the pair of Dora the Explorer underwear that my six year old had slyly shoved down the neck of the bottle and caught me completely off guard when the cashier jammed a giant ruler into the bottle, retrieving the little girl’s pink panties and handed them to me as if I was some sort of pervert.

“Are these yours?”

When you’re in line at the grocery store check-out, with several, impatient shoppers, cramming in behind you, pretending to read whatever magazine they can to keep you from dying of humiliation when someone hands you a skid-marked pair of underwear on a stick, you have two choices.

1)     You can act surprised and pretend you have no idea where they came from although I think you have to fill out a form like at the airport, a declaration that you have not left your water-jug unattended.

2)     You can quietly accept the panties and put them………where do you put them?

Are these yours? Do they look like size 22 granny panties to you?

“No, they’re not mine but I would be happy to return them to their rightful owner.”

I just remembered, they’re still in my purse.

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