My husband has a secret plan to drive me crazy. Seriously. There
is no other explanation for the horror that occurred last week in
my house. I was stalked
– STALKED – by one of Harry’s shirts. And he wasn’t wearing it.
So I figure I’m either drive-me-to-the-fun-house-crazy or I’m just
your ordinary hey-I-hear-voices insane. Either way, it’s Harry’s
fault since it’s Harry’s shirt that did it.
My husband has a secret plan to drive me crazy. Seriously. There is no other explanation for the horror that occurred last week in my house. I was stalked – STALKED – by one of Harry’s shirts. And he wasn’t wearing it. So I figure I’m either drive-me-to-the-fun-house-crazy or I’m just your ordinary hey-I-hear-voices insane. Either way, it’s Harry’s fault since it’s Harry’s shirt that did it.
You see, last week, I, Slacker Queen of Household Chores, decided to do laundry. Now I’d love to tell you that I do laundry all the time and that my family always has clean, fresh clothing, but that would be a lie. Truthfully, I wait to wash until the laundry basket is overflowing and it smells like the boy’s locker room at Junior’s school.
Anyhow, after said laundry was washed and dried, I fluffed and folded – well, OK, I just folded because when you’re the Slacker Queen of Household Chores, you don’t fluff laundry – that would be too much work. Then I left the shirt on Harry’s side of the bed. At bedtime that night, the shirt was gone. When I made the bed the next morning, I didn’t see the shirt.
Now it’s not like I would have missed it. It’s exactly the type of shirt that was made to make Slacker Queens like me completely nuts. It’s loud and ugly and green with dancing pink flamingoes on it. In a room full of ugly shirts, this one would stand out. And the shirt was not in the room.
But around mid-morning, I came into the bedroom and there was the shirt, lying over the bench at the end of our bed. I figured Harry probably tossed it there the night before. So I put the shirt on Harry’s pillow again. When I went to bed, the shirt was not around.
The next morning, I emerged from the shower and nearly slipped on the dang flamingoes that had somehow become a bathmat while I was shaving my legs. I took the stupid shirt and flung it on Harry’s side of the bed. At bedtime, I know it wasn’t there. I checked. I lifted Harry’s snoring head up by the nose and his pillow was shirtless.
But the next afternoon, I found the shirt lurking on the back of the couch in the family room. So I did what any reasonable Slacker Queen of Household Chores would do. I yelled at the shirt to stop following me around and then I called my husband and told him to put away his stupid dancing flamingo shirt before I tossed it in the barbecue and turned the burners on.
And Harry said, “What flamingo shirt?”
I swear to you, I wanted to kill that man. Here I was, a hard working Slacker Queen of Household Chores, trying my hardest to keep up with the laundry and he was tormenting me with a shirt. So I hung up the phone, took the shirt, yelled some Very Bad Words at it and threw it on Harry’s pillow. On the way out of the room I screamed, “Just stay there!” And I added some more Very Bad Words for emphasis.
Now you would think that the shirt would take the hint and hang itself up in the closet, but no. This just seemed to make the shirt want to torture me more – either that or it enjoyed hearing all the Very Bad Words I hurled at it, because over the next few days I found it in the laundry room, in the living room and, once, sitting in the kitchen cabinet behind the Two Buck Chuck I was hiding at the back and swilling down whenever I saw the shirt.
And then on Friday, Harry wore the shirt. So I did what any other Slacker Queen of Household Chores would do. I ripped the shirt off my husband’s body, screamed more Very Bad Words at it and tossed it in the trash. And that was a good thing, because trash pick up is on Friday. I watched as the shirt got emptied into the big truck.
And on Saturday, I woke up, walked out to the kitchen to start the coffee and found the dancing flamingoes on my counter-top. But that’s OK. I hear the food is very nice at the fun house. And I’m sure the voices in my head will be lovely companions, as long as they don’t shout Very Bad Words at me.
