Sunday, July 26, 2009

Its time to go now!

The words spoken by a man that's laid a fart-bomb.

The last night’s excursion was an unexpected manic frenzy through a hillbilly shopping mall. The idea to go there stemmed from my errand running throughout the day. Yep, I had to get the dry cleaning and whose dry cleaning ....not mine that's for sure. I don't have any because I don't do anything that requires me to look refined, put together or even attractive.
I'm a frumpy ol' shaggy haired, freckled faced, dark-circle under my eyes from not nearly enough sleep married broad.
The husband however, he has to look good. He's in charge of some pretty nifty stuff in his line of work. Some days, he has to look ruff to scare the contractors but he's the go-between for those multimillion dollar choices so it's a good choice to look put together, therefore the need to have those nice button down shirts and dress pants.

That all said, I have NEVER met such a clothes-horse in my life. You would think that this guy was going to be on the cover of GQ, he has more dress shirts than there are days in the work week for an entire month.
The real issue I have though is that more than half of these are in patterns and these patterns are for someone that would be working as a lumberjack. Stripes, checks and plaids and other awful patterns that would blend in environments those lumberjacks feel most comfortable.

Just a man and his axe, his companion Big Blue and those hats with ear flaps. The colors invoke winter days and hot cocoa, evergreens, melting snow on boot tips by the fireplace.

But it’s 102 degrees here every day in the summer, not exactly the type of place to wear long sleeve broadcloth shirts in dark green checkers and plaids.

You sir, do not swing an axe.
You sir, do not have climbing spurs.
You especially do not have Big Blue to befriend and you do not look like Paul Bunyon

Rather you are just a regular guy that drives a Ford Taurus and sits at a desk and does inspections.

Since I was off doing all the errands including the dry cleaning, the banking and picking up some groceries I also had the shared car, which meant I had to go and pick up THE MAN at the end of the work day. We usually would head right back to the house, do not pass go, and do not collect $200…just get to the house and so be it. Today with the way I’m feeling and the thoughts in my brain I figure let’s have a little surprise trip and head out to shop. We might not have to spend a lot of money, but we could certainly try on a few things and see what works.

One thing in particular that I know that he needs is a new pair of pants, he has been wearing his pants out in the junk-area so much that they could pass for salt shakers. Hold ‘em up in the air and light would shine through – one could use them for a backdrop on a theatre design to be a starry sky. He has only a few pair of slacks/jeans that he wears regularly for work and for casual wear he pretty much has wanted to wear the same then!

Anyhoooooo where I’m going here is that Mr GQ is outta style and ready to get refreshed. I show up, tell him to get in and instead of going left to head home…I make a right and he puts a quizzical look on his face and I hit the gas VROOOM.

Why am I torturing myself? Who knows really, probably just because I’m a masochist but really it’s because I care, I love and I want to see him succeed. Shopping with this man though, it’s going to be a headache I just know it!

We pop into the first store and immediately I start pulling slacks off and tossing them over his shoulders, into his arms, over his head. His face is disappearing and he’s starting to slump under the weight of the yards of fabric. He’s saying, wait wait are you getting the right size, which I respond with “aren’t you blankity blank size?” and he says, “ya but sometimes I’m ….or sometimes I’m …..”
I don’t really care because I’m throwing a little of both of the sizes at him already taking this into consideration.

When he’s laden down well enough I nod and he says in a muffled voice from under the heap, “Can I go try these on now?”

“Yup..git on, I’ll look at shirts. “

Now the fun really begins; looking for anything that looks better than those lumberjack shirts. Lemme tell you that the man can pull off some really bold colors, bold as in primary as well as Miami Vice!

He’s a fair skinned fellow with sandy blonde hair, pale blue eyes, nearly colourless eyelashes and cheeks that are a bit flushed with time and exposure.

He wears a mustache and goatee, I’d say he’s a fine looking fellow and when he cleans up I have to mentally slap away the bitches (sometimes verbally and if I must I will physically beat those bitches off).

I’m really excited to have found in a rack on the far wall a whole row of beautiful Oxford shirts, and at a price that makes me tingle! I am a cheap woman, frugal and generally not eager to spend money on shit that isn’t going to better my quality of life. This shopping trip isn’t bettering my quality of life but it’s going to make the man look better for work, maybe impress the boss which (HEY!) could improve the bottom line and bring home more bacon.

What I’m not ready to find out; they don’t suit his Highness due to a design flaw which is tantamount! BUTTON DOWN COLLAR. Good grief Charlie Brown. How this is important in the grand scheme of life, I do not know as I am not a button down shirt wearing card member but neither is he a tie-sporting individual on any regular basis. In my estimation, this would be the main rule of thumb for the necessary needs and means for having those 2 itty-bitty buttons (which my none-too-lissome fingers can fidget with).

The packaging of these shirts do not have any documentation on them depicting what they are, not to the casual eye so we are getting a bit pissy by now and I’m starting to throw a fit because I wanted him to settle on 3 shirts then and there. This is how I shop, bam bam bam! He wants what he wants..bam bam bam. Neither of us are satisfied and then voices are slightly raised and its getting down to both of us having grumbling tummies and the stress of being in an enclosed building with recirculated air infected with hillbilly breath and dirty diaper residue. The possible use of asbestos in the tile flooring and acoustic tile reverberating old gossip of high school girls chattering is ringing in our ears slowly driving us mad subconsciously and we are surely going to eat each other’s faces off before this trip is completed.

Nothing is found and I’m stomping in the direction of the checkout station where I spot one of those women that still believe they are 25, dressing for 25 however are closer to 45 and you cringe for them and desperately want to help tuck their clothes farther down to cover this or that lump and bump.
Her nametag in plain sight I speak to her by name, which has her staring me deep into my eyes and asking me, “Do I know you?”
of course not, but I know you …by your name tag.

I ask for this specific style of shirt and she promises to show us where we might find them right after she checks the next customer and proceeds to lead us the way. I’m pleased, hurray, customer service isn’t dead (I have a blog in me that says it is) but I’m a bit sick for having to watch her sashay in front of us leading the way.

Sadly, despite finding the correct model of shirts none will fit Mr. Bunyon because not only does he dress like him he is nearly as much of a bear. (Okay all of my gay followers sigh with desire)So we head back to the counter, but not before I spot a circular on an empty check out station that has a coupon on it for that weekend’s big sale for $15.00 of any single purchase of $75.00 or more! HOT DIGGITY DOG. You know damn well I’m swiping it, my eyes jog side to side and up and down for the eye in the sky and like a teenager in a 5 and dime – the coupon is torn and jammed into my pocket faster than a Milky Way.

This story does not end here …but instead we chase the dream of those buttons. Walking about, eyeballing the freaks, the stroller pushers, the posers, the exercising grandma’s, the hawkers and gawkers and finally land into the high-end department store where a very pretty Latina girl comes up a bit shy and asks quietly…can I help you? I bark out, “Size, Color, Button Down, oxford…NOW”
She scurries off and returns with 4…we shove the man into the dressing room and start talking about him and his high maintenance ways…he’s in LOVE with what she’s found so far so I ask of her to please find a few more in various colors because she’s hit the jackpot! She again runs off, her petite feet making little taps on the linoleum floor and returns with hangers in her hands and the shirts swinging in her arms.
Hubby is smiling.
I am smiling.

We celebrate with a stop at the Pretzel stand.

Sit to nibble ….and just as we are about to depart he clutches his tummy, rolls one hip just slightly and lifts his hip and butt cheek and releases a fart.

This is a fart which you would save for the privacy of your home; the type that sounds like a whoopy cushion, wet and like it’s flapping, squishy and popping. The type where he jokingly refers to with..”I think I might have to wipe”

….he then says – ”I think it’s time to go now”