So after getting the E-man’s hair cut Saturday, the first time since Easter (*ahem*),  we headed over to the hoity-toity grocery store.

I rarely go to this store, but was craving a certain stuffed chicken breast at their meat counter. If you’ve been there, you know that children are frowned upon. They don’t really go with the classical music or clientele.

Unless you happen to be the proud owner a a non-crying, non-squawking, not-yet-mobile baby, you basically race through that store as quickly as possible, ignoring the hostile looks each time one of the little darlings does/says something ridiculously inappropriate.

First the sweet little things pulled open a couple of candy jars and thrust their faces inside, mere inches from the chocolate and gum drops, ignoring my orders to closethejarsrighthisminute. (“We just want to smell it, Mama!”)

Next, as we cruised by the deli counter, they caught a whiff of marinated mushrooms.

“What stinks?!” the E-man asked loudly, holding his nose.

His sister giggled, then promptly grabbed her own nose and made gagging noises. This continued for quite some time, despite my fervent pleas and increasingly frantic threats.

No matter what part of the store we were in, the E-man complained about the odor.

(The E-man’s nose has always been on the sensitive side. When he was a mere babe, he used to grab people’s hair and inhale deeply, luxuriating in  the smell of their hair products. It was embarrassing, trying to explain to well-meaning grannies that my son merely had an addiction to their mousse or hairspray.)

Saturday’s most horrifying moment, however, occurred in the pasta aisle.

I should preface this by explaining that the E-man finds great joy in potty humor.

So I probably shouldn’t have been so caught off-guard when he stopped in the middle of the well-populated aisle, bent over, pointed at his rear and hollered, “Hey, Tootie!! This store smells like my butt!”