I think we all know that I am a classy chick.
What? You know I am.
And the 4th of July was hot. With my bloody mary safely stowed in the stroller's cupholder for easy (and frequent) access, I was carrying the world's cutest baby in the kiddie parade. (mmmmm Ginger Baby I love you.) But even the world's cutest red-haired baby is still a hot bundle of love to clutch to your chest while you parade through town in mid-day sun.
I wasn't going to put him down, mind you. That was not an option - I gotta get my baby fix where I can. But when I did eventually hand him back to his mother (oh so reluctantly) I realized that the entire front of my shirt was soaked. Poor Ginger Baby, having to cuddle with his sweaty auntie.
So when I looked down and realized that I was giving "hot mess" a whole new definition, I did what I thought any normal person who is wearing a bathingsuit under a sweat-drenched shirt would do.
I took off the shirt.
In retrospect, possibly I should have reconsidered. After all, everyone else was fully clothed.
But I was hot. And sweaty. So I took it off.
"What the hell are you doing?" someone asked as I approached the finish line.
"I got hot and sweaty."
Long silent staring match ensued. Which I totally won.
When I met back up with my husband and our cooler (who had gotten a bit ahead of me on the parade route) I broke what I believe to be another cardinal rule. I cracked open a beer on the training wheel of my daughter's bike (which makes a phenomenal bottle opener - note to self) in order to further refresh myself. And in doing so, I sprayed all of us with beer that had been bobbing along for the better part of two hours while we marched and walked and ran and chased our kids along through the parade.
My daughter was disgusted. "MOOOOOOMMMMM. YOU ALWAYS SPRAY ME. YUCK!"
Now my shorts were also soaked. I wiped them off with my shirt.
And I kept on walking.
30 minutes ago