Bunny!

I have heard it said that in every parent's life, there comes a time when you beg the universe "please don't let that be my child."  Normally this thought is precipitated by the crashing of hundreds of bottles of BBQ sauce or a display of crystal.

Well, my first "PDLTBMC" moment came today at Whole Foods.  Now to bebe's credit, Whole Foods is his 'hood.  He is totally a Whole Foodie and currently has a $5/day organic strawberry habit in addition to his $4/day milk issue.  I am trying to rationalize this with decreased health care costs but, seriously, Houston, we have a problem.

But that is for another day.  This is about The PDLTBMC Incident.

We are zooming through Whole Foods and bebe boy is perfectly content eating strawberries and sampling the free smoked gouda (yes, I totally let him eat the free samples at WF but not at other places.  For whatever misguided and warped reason, I am convinced that dirty hands don't touch the WF samples.  Yes, I know this is ridiculous but it is my madness as well as my blog so there)!

Once he has been sated, he insists on getting out and pushing the cart.  I hate this because it slows me down but, seriously, this is not the hill upon which I choose to die, Marine.  So I let him out.  He pushes the cart in huge circles and randomly stops to dance or pick up some snacks for his discriminating self ("ohhhh, Baby Bells, don't mind if I do."  "Is that cave-aged cheese?").

So, I am at the charcuterie counter (SO much more attractive than "deli counter") and here comes a character I will deem "Bunny."  Now everyone knows a Bunny or, at the very least can pick her out in a crowd.  She is the 30-something woman who wears completely inappropriate attire for Sunday morning grocery shopping and acts like she has no idea that she is, essentially, naked.

Bunny's get-up this a.m. consisted of a silver lame shirt and (really beautiful) platform heels in black snakeskin (hey, she is a whore but a whore with very good taste in footwear).  And, yes, I do mean she was wearing a shirt.  I think when the vice police come to get her, she will swear up and down that she thought it was a dress, but it was a shirt.  And not a particularly long shirt either.  I am against forcing women into wearing a burka but, seriously, I am less than amused with seeing your cheeks while I pick out my Romas.

So, anyway, bebe boy is fascinated by shiny, half-naked girl (which was clearly her intent.  She was, hopefully, aiming for a slightly older audience than my 18 month old but attention is what she wanted and she got it.  In spades.)  When she zooms by, bebe boy claps.  Not as appreciatively as he does for cherry tomatoes or strawberries but she got a higher score than the bananas got this morning.  Not bad for 10am on a Sunday.

This is where the wheels come off.  I am chatting away with the deli guy (oh sorry, the charcuterie monsieur) and I hear a bit of a ruckus.  I turn around just in time to see that Bunny is bent over, cheeks fully exposed.  Seeing her shiny naked self is too much -- bebe boy has abandoned both the cart and the mozzarella de buffala.    He has danced over (he either runs or dances everywhere.  Walking is so boring), lifted up her shirt the rest of the way, done a quick bongo set on her cheeks and given her a very large zerbert.  Quite possibly his best zerbert ever, it was the perfect combination of moisture, length and pressure.

He then falls down laughing and clapping for himself.

I am beyond horrified.  There is no way you can apologize enough to someone to express the horror I felt.

Did I mention that Bunny was not wearing underwear?