Further proof that giving birth to three children has made me mildly retarded

We stopped by the in-laws’ house Saturday morning, on our way home from the salon, to show off Big Boy’s new haircut.

When we walked into the living room, I did what I always do; I slipped off my sandals in the corner of the room.

As I sat down on the couch, Mother-In-Law said, with a look of bewilderment on her face, “Are you…Are you wearing two different shoes?”

I looked down at my bare feet, thinking she’d really lost it, and replied, “I’m not wearing ANY shoes.”

Again the bewildered look, as she glances over at my sandals and back at me. “No, I mean…ARE YOU WEARING TWO DIFFERENT SANDALS?”

I follow her gaze to the sandals I had casually slipped off.


The whole time…THE WHOLE TIME we were getting Big Boy’s hair cut, I was wearing mismatched sandals. I mean, these two sandals don’t even come CLOSE to resembling each other.

You know what? Just lemme grab my camera and recreate it for you…


Yeah. You see? NOT EVEN CLOSE. The one on the left has a firmer sole, and the one on the right is more squishy and rubbery. THEY DON’T FEEL THE SAME. What the hell is wrong with me?

You’d think I would’ve noticed something when I was WALKING in the stupid things. They’re not even the same HEIGHT:

But no. I took my son for his first haircut, met the hairdresser for the first time (Good Lord, there’s no telling what she thought.), and all the while I looked like I was on a weekend pass from the looney bin.

I blame this on Deputy Dad. He should know by now I can’t be trusted with any task that requires more than two brain cells.

Yes, apparently dressing myself IS one of those tasks.



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