Stress makes you do stupid things? Well, it does me.

Pretty much. It's marginally funny, because I ordered a keyboard protector right away, and it should be delivered in a couple of days.

Instead of being made of silicone, the keyboard protector is made of 100% IRONY.

Well, it is a Buffista keyboard protector. I'd be a menace to a laptop or a Kindle because I'm always dropping things when I eat and read. I don't even have water in here with the computer stuff. Which is a pain, cause, hello? Impaired. But it's not so much a testament to my self-denying nature as much a reflection of how much grief I got in high school when Stepdad cleaned up the component I spilled on. I am also the cleanest Netflix renter on the planet. d'oh...stupid traumatic childhood!

Ooh, Steph, that sucks.

I dropped my steampunk Gibson book in the bathtub the other night. That was probably a good thing, because I really want to read the Nook in the tub, but obviously I really really can't.

Ugh Steph. I'm sorry.

I had my own trauma there when I had to take her bra shopping recently and realized that the child was now in a 34D bra.

I didn't fit into a 34D until I was pregnant.

I still wouldn't, myself.

I'm just praying that I'll still be in a B-cup after I finish losing weight. So far, it's still a C, but that's more than likely going to change in the next 50 pounds or so.

And I no longer fit one, erika, 34C now. Or 36B depending on the bra. I think there's one D in my drawer. Turns out bras are like all other women's clothing: sizing on labels is only tangentially related to actual size.

I could fit into a D cup if I were smuggling citrus fruits.

Ah, D cups. Those were the days.

Teppy, about your keyboard, I semi-remember something about rubbing alcohol, but. Do. Not. Try. That until Daniel gets home so I can verify, or he has a chance to catch up and give you his two-cents-worth.