Let's BLOG Flip Flops on Fire

Grocery shopping.  Got to LOVE it.  Like an impacted molar.

But alas.  If I didn't hit Market Basket in the next 24 hours, my family will submit to knawing on the cabinetry.  So off I went.

In my flip flops.

The same flip flops I wore during a week long trip to Disney. When it was close to boiling point and the sweat from every last gland in my body dripped down my legs and pooled beneath my feet.

Still. They are fairly new flip flops. And quite pretty.

So I wore them to Market Basket.

I was en route, about halfway there when I smelled a certain distinctive stench.  Something between mildew and a tub of Gorgonzola cheese.

It was then I was reminded of the flip flops.

I hadn't washed them since the trip.  And now my feet were consumed of some sort of chemically  rank reaction.

But it was too late to turn back.  I proceeded to Market Basket.  Hoping that no one else would have to bear the wrath of my smelly ass feet.

Course there I had only made it down aisle TWO.  Aisle TWO I tell you when a little four year old boy, all of three feet tall made a special announcement.  "AW, what's that s m e l l l l l l l l l l?"  Being that he was all of four years of age and his mommy being depressed about being at Market Basket when she could be floating along some relaxing riverbank somewhere with an orange dream bar in hand, the boy was ignored.  Except by me.

I acknowledged that smell.  I knew it had to be my feet.

Sure I hashed out some other explanation for the smell like it was the hot roasted rotisserie chicken in my cart or perhaps the old balding man in the motorized cart blazed his saddle between the pork and beans.

I got to get me one of those.  Carts I mean.

With a list two hundred items long and it being past supper time, I shoved ahead, smelly ass shoes and all.  But at least they looked pretty.  And the little boy could go back to that thing called INHALING.

Two more aisles down, the cereal department, Little Boy arrives with family in tote.

I shuffle along but can't avoid the next announcement.  Bolder than the last one.

"AW,  NOT THAT SMELL AAAAAGAIN..."  This time Little Boy smacks his forehead in disbelief and stumbles around.  Either trying to track the smell or find a device to resuscitate his lungs.

Folks, I was raised to be a LADY.  So the admittance of my smelly ass feet is not easy for me.  But I am also honest and forthright.  That boy was right ON.  There WAS a smell.  And it was most definitely MY flip flops. 

In fact, I am somewhat of a child expert so when I heard that last outcry, I knew its translation. I must also point out that children of this size haven't yet gained a vocabulary of four letter words that we adults use to express how we are feeling at any given moment.  Especially when you're all of three feet tall and someone has smelly ass shoes and you are in a grocery store.  AW, NOT THAT SMELL AGAIN translates to:  $@%! Mom, Dad, what the $@%! kind of %@&*%! smell is that? Why do you always %@&*%! make me come to this store? $@%!" 

I did the only thing I could do.  ABORT.  I exited the aisle leaving only a faint but deadly trail of smelly ass feet behind me and sought out the nearest personal hygiene aisle.

I found myself a can of  Men's SPORT GUARD 250 Super-maxi strength aerosol deodorant and sprayed that mother all over my smelly ass flip flops.  Right there in aisle 11. One foot at a time.

I continued on with the grocery shopping, and my sulking, and eventually checking out.  That poor little boy was now at a different registry aisle begging for candy.  I should have bought him a lollipop at least.  But I feared if I take one more step toward him he may just take his own life before he could say $@%!

half-a-mom