When I got to the theater, I was starving. And they sell these chicken apple sausages at the concessions stand so I decided to make one my dinner and I said "just a little regular mustard." And I watched him. He was good. He only put a little mustard on it.
You see I know full well that first of all, mustard stains -- it's a bitch to get out, and second, that I tend to spill things.
So I was very, very careful eating that thing. I was downright delicate. And when I'd made all gone, I looked down and I must say, there was nary a spot on my blouse. Well done, me! I watched (and enjoyed!) the rest of the film.
Afterward, I threw my bag on my shoulder and went to the parking cashier window. He was looking at my chest but I'm a busty lady -- a lot of people look at my chest and I'm not particualrly phased by it anymore. But when I got to my car, I got a better look downward. Over the curve of my chest -- the part of my body I don't really see because my boobs stick out so far.
All. Over. My. Shirt. MUSTARD. A ton of it. So much, in fact, I don't even believe it came from my dinner. I asked for just a little, after all, and he obliged. How did I now have such a pile of it on my blouse? Caked on! Layers! And I'd been walking around like that for about 20 minutes by then -- who knows what I'd transferred it to. And now what did I do from there? I couldn't strap my seatbelt on. It would get on everything. It's clumpy, all over, and not even dry.Follow my blog with Bloglovin