Thursday, January 23, 2014

Don't Make Me Go to the Hobby Lobby

So there's this t-shirt I like to sleep in from time to time that's from a high school basketball tournament my team played in. And by my team I mean the people that I watched play, while remaining in a comfortable seated position.

I earned that shirt.

I cheered my heart out for those gals.

And endured the bus ride home.

Anyway, the shirt is from 1993. And yes, I realize that means you can figure out my age. But what if I was a genius that started high school when I was seven?

Don't answer that.

So round about 2011 my husband pointed out that my precious shirt, if it were human, would have reached the legal voting age. And just maybe, but the time it was able to pour itself a margarita we should think about sending it on to glory.

To which I responded,

Um, no.
If it's this amazingly soft now, can you imagine the heights of coziness it will have reached by 2014?

Those weren't my exact words, because I can't do math that fast without some assistance.

It was probably more along the lines of

heck to the no

Followed by some giggling.

I'm quite the negotiator.

So now, here we are in the year of our Lord two thousand and fourteen. I must confess, I hadn't really thought much about the shirt and what this year could possibly mean for it until the other night. 

When it all came crashing down.

Not the shirt, because clearly if it fell, it would float like a feather from a graceful swan, gently gliding toward it's resting place while managing to fold itself.

You all recall a few weeks ago I mentioned that my love was the turkey man? And that due to some brining issues we ended up with three turkeys for Thanksgiving dinner? 

Well.

One evening last week, I was in Lainey's room helping her get started on some homework. Andy knocked on the door and then opened it quickly saying

I need you

This wasn't a come hither, woman, I need you, it was more of an

Oh crud, I've totally done it now.

As I quickly followed him out of her room the details started spilling out.

Literally.

He had been looking for baseball bags in the garage to loan to someone in our church. While he was moving things around he noticed the turkey fryer thing was still sitting in the midst of the bikes, the firewood and the recycling so he decided to put it away. It wasn't until he had hoisted it above his shoulder and the drip pan started to slide out right past his ear that he remembered

he'd never cleaned the stinkin' thing.

Never cleaned it.

Three turkeys.

Seven weeks ago.

How both grown-ups in this house managed to miss that one is beyond me.

But never you fear, we have everything else UNDER CONTROL.

Although, apparently I've lost all sense of smell.

Anyway, sliding drip pan turned into splattering fat, lard and how should I say this....

Turkey parts.

Yes, indeed, turkey parts all over his car, the garage floor and his pants.

Which brings me to the point of my story.

Stop cheering.

In the four seconds it took us to descend the stairs he made it clear that my top priority should be his pants.

Save the pants!

His favorite pants!

Listen, I am not one to brush off a request to help someone rescue a beloved clothing item. I once pulled my Dad's puke green and threadbare sweatshirt OUT OF THE GARBAGE. 

And then I framed it.

In a shadow box.

FRAMED IT.

IN A SHADOW BOX.

Because I thought it a terrible injustice that my mom made him get rid of it. 

So forget that the car may very well may show a large grease stain every time it rains for the next 5 years. Who cares if small woodland creatures make their way into our home because the smell of bird carcass has taken over? Why would it matter that it looks like a crime scene on our garage floor should we ever put our house on the market?

Priorities, people.

I MUST SAVE THE PANTS.  

For the record, when they say Dawn gets the grease out, it really does. 

Even fowl that has festered for two months.

(I've submitted that for their next commercial campaign.)

(It's kinda catchy, no?)

And now, having recovered from Turkey Tornado 2014 I feel I have a little wiggle room in the retirement plan of Old Man 1993, as I affectionately call him.

I didn't really name my shirt.....

But I'm starting to think I should.

Because anytime Andy brings up my shirt's future I'm fairly certain I can add several years of snuggly sleep when I remind him

Dude, I saved the pants.






 
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For the record, my mother-in-law was there that night and she managed to scrape up most of the nastiness while I was attending to the pants. I only needed to scrub the concrete (Pine-sol and hot water!) and hose down the step stool that had taken a a bird bath. I am sure she earned some jewels in her heavenly crown. I tell you this in case you should have any interest in some day buying our home. Seeing as you know all about the stellar handiwork we've put into it.

4 comments:

  1. Y'all are always good for a laugh! Thanks!

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    1. Thanks Aunt Mary! Hug to you and Uncle!

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  2. Huuuuhhhlarious! I would like to tell you that as I type this comment I rest comfortably in my 1995 Girls Elks Invitational soccer tournament sweatshirt. My husband likes to refer to this little number as "sex repellent" (phrase coined courtesy of Jon Weece). So...I completely understand. I also just cleaned up my kids rain boots during our torrential downpour a few weeks ago so they could play in them and Avery said - we pick berries in our boots? The reason for her sweet little question: they'd been resting in the garage...coverd in crusty mud...since JUNE when we picked berries. True story.

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    Replies
    1. I love that you have that shirt. I wish we lived closer.
      But I'll come to you, because you have better winter weather.
      And I have this black zippered reebok sweatshirt that my husband refers to as "Andy repellent".........
      :)

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