Margi: You have NO shirts that you can wear.
Me: (confused) Wha? Huh? Duh? (mouth stays open)
Margi: (holding a bunch of shirts on hangers) You have a stain on every single one of these shirts. What–do you have a hole in your lower lip?
Me: (her suggestion having triggered a flight of fancy) If I had a hole in my lower lip, would you still have married me? If I had a hole in my lower lip, wouldn’t I whistle when I speak? If I had…
Me: Oh, sorry. Umm, what?
Margi: I said, you have no shirts to wear. Okay, I do not want you to wear these nice silk shirts except to church, okay? And, honey, pleeaaazzze don’t wear your nice pants when you work on the car!
Me: Sure. No problem. Oh… wait! Which ones are the nice ones again?
[This guy is NOT me, but he’s wearing a funny shirt about “shirt stains.”]
Later that week, I check with another guy.
Erich: (Laughing) Ruth always asks me, “Why didn’t you tell me there was a stain on your shirt? I would have put a stain remover on it!”
Me: How unreasonable! She should just figure, “It’s a shirt. It has a stain.” You shouldn’t have to tell her. It should be automatic, right? Treat ’em all!” Can’t you get stain remover by the gallon?
[Blogger’s Disclaimer: Nothing in the above comment is intended to imply or endorse the neanderthalic idea that women and not men are in charge of the laundry. We’re a team, right?]
Last week, when I drove myself to work and my daughter to school (same place), I was sipping my morning coffee. The lid wasn’t on tightly enough. New stain.
Yesterday I was enjoying my regular:
blended-low-carb-mocha-breve-extra-shot-decaf-no-whip from Yaks, and when I got to the bottom of the cup it was too thick to suck up through my straw (a pet peeve).
So I shook the cup a little to loosen it. Big mistake. What got me was the straw. There was a little bit of the blended, umm, “confection” left in the end of the straw. You know what I mean? The top had a little “bubble” of stuff in it.
As soon as I started shaking the cup, the top of my straw splattered my shirt with coffee ‘n such. Another new stain. I went to the bathroom to try to wipe it off, but it was useless.
I wasn’t even drinking the dang stuff and it got me.
When I came home that day, I held a big stack of mail against my chest to cover the splatter so my dear, forgiving, understanding wife wouldn’t see it. Honey, you complete me.
Last night, when I couldn’t decide what to blog, I shut my computer and had my nightly serving of:
and sure enough, a big goober of ice-cream landed near the collar toward my right shoulder. New stain.
Eureka! I must blog this! When will shirt-manufacturers get the idea? Put the stains on the shirt in the factory and get it over with. Coffee. Ketchup. BBQ sauce. End the suffering! Stain the shirts, please!
What is it about guys and getting stains on our shirts? Any ideas? I’m getting paranoid. Margi says I should just wear an apron around the house. Forget it! I’m the man of the house doggone it. A servant of Almighty God doesn’t have to wear an apron.