I wore my new jeans today, and it wasn't until I was at the doctor's office strippin' down that I heard the telltale clatter of tags still hanging from the inside of my pants. It wouldn't have been such a stupid mistake except that this was the second time I've worn the things. Oops.
But apparently I'm not the only one suffering from a brain fog—this morning I found a bottle of Finley's milk in the cabinet where we keep his bottles, just sitting there going bad. I swear it wasn't me. Then again, I suppose it's entirely possible that it was, but I think I'll let Tim take the fall.
And speaking of brain degeneration, I bought a trashy celeb-stalking mag today. I was just so disappointed that the most interesting thing in my doc's waiting room was Ladies' Home Journal—whose readers are apparently very interested in failing/rekindled marriages—that I picked up a Star at the King Sooper's when I went to grab more kid supplies.
So I may not remember to take all of the tags off of my new clothes, or properly put things away, but I can sure as heck remember what Miley Cyrus wore in Paris on the first! I'm so glad I don't have any little girls ready to be lead into slutdom by another post-Disney musical whore in the making. Have we learned nothing from Lindsay Lohan?
