I’ve been trying to come up with a topic to write about.
I’m an inch away from just throwing out another list. These are hard times, people. Hard times that are otherwise known as Severe Writer’s Block.
So I played three games of Scrabble Blast, and, in the process, I kept clicking back to my Blogger page…
…and I’ve deduced that this post simply isn’t going to write itself, although I had some high hopes of clicking over here and discovering that something noteworthy had just magically appeared.
Sort of like the Fairy Godmother and the diamond-encrusted slippers, when all the housework is done.
It really must not be my day today, because my best score at Scrabble Blast tonight was 2,800. I think we’re all aware of the fact that no one’s going to attain the Wizarding Level with a sorry score like that one, so I just gave up. I tend to be a full-on Quitter, when the going gets tough.
I clicked back to the blank blog post (say that one, five times fast!), and it’s still just a white page of nothingness, so I guess it’s going to have to be me who actually writes it.
So, it’s Tuesday.
And we woke up to more rain, because apparently Small Town, USA is now the hot-spot for the Cullens to live.
So what do you do when you have a free morning and your house is clean, and it’s pouring buckets outside? Well, you text Cody, and you say, “Do you want to go shopping?” Because honestly, I don’t know anything that can brighten a day better than slapping down a piece of plastic at the cash register and calling out to all who’ll listen, “I’ll just take it all.”
Except Hubs tends to overreact when I do that, so I keep it to a minimum.
But today, well, the shopping was solely for Hubs, because we weeded through Hubs’ closet, and discovered that it was sorely lacking. Add to this existing constant the other constant that Hubs refuses to shop for himself, and you get a third constant, with no variables.
Did that make any sense at all? Yeah, well it never made any sense in my junior-year algebra class either. But that could have been because a really cute boy sat on the opposite side of the class, and I may or may not have done some surveillance on him, to make sure that I knew what he was up to at all times, and I avoided prolonged periods of eye contact with the blackboard.
It’s all Smart Boards and document cameras and computers now, people! My nine-year-old has no idea what it means to have something written out in chalk at school. It’s kind of like when I laughed at my parents for this little thing called an 8-track player that they had in the car for a while.
The moral? Never laugh at your parents for their levels of technology, because it will come back to bite you in the ankle. The way I have it pegged, Smart Boards will be completely Old School when the boy has children in the 3rd grade. His kids will probably just catch a little shuttle bus to the moon and have their teacher give lessons through a hologram of herself.
Where was I? You know? Before the tangent?
Hubs is of the opinion that if it was laundered in the last month, it’s still okay to wear to work. Wrinkles do not bother Hubs. A few mustard stains from yesterday’s sandwich do not bother Hubs. An unraveling seam does not bother Hubs.
Do you want to know what does bother him though?
If I iron a shirt for him to wear to church on Sunday morning, he flat-out refuses to wear it to work on Monday, because (heaven forbid!) someone from church might see him in his office on Monday and exclaim, “Goodness, Hubs! Isn’t that the same shirt you wore for 90 minutes yesterday morning, while you soaked up a Word from our Lord?”
Instead of wearing the freshly-ironed shirt, which he takes off immediately after getting home from church, Hubs would rather dig one out of the bottom of the laundry basket on Monday mornings.
Clearly, dirty trumps wore-that-one-for-an-hour-and-a-half-yesterday anytime.
But come Tuesday morning? Well, Hubs will wear the Sunday shirt. But never on Mondays.
Yes, Hubs refuses to shop for himself. If I can get him into Eddie Bauer in Bigger Town, USA once a year, I consider myself fortunate. And, if I succeed at getting him in there, I know we’ll have exactly six minutes before he hits a shopping wall and needs a paper sack to breathe into, so we have to hurry. I have learned to race through Eddie Bauer like an Olympic sprinter, grabbing shirts that I think Hubs may find acceptable.
It sort of reminds me of the old game show from yesteryear, when contestants had to race through the grocery store with a full cart and try to fill it with the most expensive loot. Those contestants have nothing on me. Give me a shopping cart in the middle of Eddie Bauer, and I can successfully get $9,000 worth of shirts into it for Hubs’ perusal in sixty seconds flat.
Hubs also has definite opinions about what he’ll wear. Acceptable colors are blue, black, gray and brown. Orange can work in some cases, but only because it’s one of the Denver Bronco colors. I’m afraid that if the Broncos were decked out in any other color combination, orange would be completely out for us. Collars are always iffy for Hubs, because he classifies some collars as those which are acceptable for hockey players to wear, and those which are only acceptable for George Michael to wear. Jeans must be either Levi’s or Carharts; no exceptions. Pastel colors are out, 365 days of the year. Yellow is a never-color, pink is a rather-die-than-wear-that color, and purple is intolerable. Don’t even ask about Hubs’ opinions on turquoise.
This morning, I texted Cody and said, “I am going shopping for Hubs. I may need moral support.”
I’ve learned, over the years, that you never have to ask Cody twice to shop.
Two hours later, I came home with an enormous bag of goodies, which I saved for Hubs’ discerning eye this evening.
And do you know what? Other than one shirt (which sported a George Michael collar) and two pairs of Levi’s, which turned out to be too long and just need to be exchanged for the next shorter size, he nodded and grinned at everything. It was nothing short of a Christmas miracle in May.
Hubs did learn, however, that he loves Under Armour. He’s never had his own Under Armour shirt before, although I did buy him a generic, Under-Armour-like shirt from Wal-Mart once. I left it in the closet, and he tried it on for the first time while I had the boy over in Gymnastics Land, USA, which is thirty miles from home. Hubs called me and said, “So. I’m wearing the fake shirt. And all I have to say is that I feel like Mr. Incredible. Maybe just a salad!”
I laughed until the gymnastics coach looked up into the stands to see who was making all the racket. Honestly, my favorite thing about Hubs is simply this: He’s mine, and he’s my favorite, and he makes me laugh.
Faux Under Armour fits nothing like the real stuff. An XL in Faux Under Armour fits like a glove and restricts the passage of air into Hubs’ lungs. Hubs is not an XL, as much as he would like to be. Hubs is (barely) a Large. Hubs can wear some Mediums, although he refuses. If the shirts run big, and I’m forced to buy him a Medium, I simply TELL Hubs that it’s a Large, and he never thinks to check the tags.
Marketing techniques for men and women are completely backwards. For women? If manufacturers of True Religion jeans would put a giant “SIZE 4” on their biggest jeans, they’d quadruple their annual revenue. On the flip side of that, if Eddie Bauer would put XXL on their normal medium-sized men’s shirts, they’d see sales skyrocket, too.
Clearly, I am in the wrong career. Surely I’m not the only person who has thought of this marketing technique.
At any rate, I did buy Hubs three new Under Armour shirts today — the REAL Under Armour brand. He’d never even tried one on before, but when he did, he sighed.
And he said, “Wow! I love these! No wonder this is the boy’s favorite brand!”
The boy, you see, will wear anything. ANYTHING. However, the boy prefers Under Armour above and beyond all else. He has a few shirts and shorts in this brand, and our conversations go like this every morning:
“Do I have a clean Under Armour shirt?”
“No. They’re in the wash.”
“Why? Why didn’t you wash them?”
“Because I haven’t done a dark load in the last two days.”
“Well, I have three Under Armour shirts! Can’t you wash two of them, when I’m wearing one? Can’t you buy me some more Under Armour shirts? I just love how they feel! Why can’t you buy me more of them?”
“How about we sell off some Legos and hit the sporting goods store right after school today and pick some new Under Armour out? I figure that if we sell your Lego collection, you should have enough money to deck yourself in a different Under Armour shirt every day of the month.”
“I can wear a Mini Boden shirt today, Mom. I don’t mind.”
I am afraid that Hubs may be going down this same route.
“I have three Under Armour shirts now, Woman! Can’t you wash two of them, while I’m wearing one?”
Thank goodness Under Armour has no idea what a George Michael collar is.