You always remember your first ascot.

Can you believe some of them wanted to give their ascots back? No love for the ascot.

(Photo via Bobafred.)

I ran into Bobafred and Mingaling last night at Target in the midst of what Bobafred called my “mighty quest” to find a festive holiday ascot. No luck last night, but a trip to the fabric store and five dollars later, I have the baddest assest ascot Jesus has ever seen. (And enough fabric for several more!)

There was a foot of snow on the ground here in Boston yesterday. It was supposed to be my big day walking around Boston seeing all that can be seen. I wasn’t too concerned about the snow. A foot of snow is a rare sight for an Atlanta, but Boston takes good care of its streets and sidewalks.

I get off the commuter train to start hearing a thunk-thunk, thunk-thunk as I walk into South Station. I look down. About four inches of the sole of my boot has come undone and is flopping around. No worries. I’ll just take my time and shuffle over to Downtown Crossing.

It gets louder, much louder. Now there are only four inches still attached to the boot. If I slide my foot just right, it doesn’t make any noise and, hopefully, no more damage. I limp my way to the ticket counter to get a day pass. Four flights of stairs and two T stops later, I’m in the Downtown Crossings Macy’s with a new pair of shoes.

No more talking Jesii are available at Wal-Mart, and Target is almost out. Should have done your Christmas shopping earlier. (Hat tip to my fundy spy.)

So don’t be so damn naughty.

Burningbird writes of carts, horses, chickens, eggs, and why Doris Lessing screwed up her Nobel acceptance speech. So quit blogging already, you’re hurting baby Jesus.