Stain ---- for the Writer's Workshop

When I saw the writing prompt telling us to write a post using the word stain, somehow my thoughts went to dark things like stains on my soul and stains on society.  This is a bit disturbing considering how boring I am.  Believe me; I don’t do anything that’s exciting enough to leave stains on my soul!  As for society, perhaps the events last week in Paris are responsible for those thoughts.  Honestly, I really want to get away from that.  You don’t need my blog to add to all of the commentary that’s already floating around the internet.

There is another sort of stain that plagues my life that would be far better blog material; the kind of stains that I’m hoping I’m not alone in collecting.  That’s right, I’m talking about stains on my shirts.  I’m forever saying “oh geez, you can’t take me anywhere” because I’m always wiping some spill or another from my cleavage.

Somebody please tell me I'm not alone in this....... please.......

I fully admit that I’m a clutz.  I trip over my own feet regularly, can’t carry more than two or three things without dropping something or running into someone and I definitely can’t eat anything with a sauce without dripping it down my front.  Even something “loose” like rice, if I put a decent amount on my fork, will end up in my bra if my shirt is low-cut enough.

When my kids witness this, they are so used to it that they just roll their eyes and keep on eating their meal.  The sight of their mother with gravy splatters on her boobs doesn’t even elicit a comment anymore.

I have a number of shirts in my only-wear-at-home pile, not because they don’t fit well anymore or they are worn out but because they have one too many stains on them to be decent enough for public viewing.  I always know that it’s time to go shopping when that pile gets bigger than my decent-enough-for-public-viewing pile.

I own my clutziness but I’m convinced that the stains are my boobs’ fault.  Those suckers are big and catch everything that comes their way kind of like those big blow-up things that stunt men land on when they jump off buildings.  It’s a cross that all big boobed women have to bear…..

Look, I can't even brush my teeth without dribbling!

Kathy