08 August 2011

T-Shirts by Default

T-shirts and socks. We go through 'em like water over here. Well, I don't, and the baby girl doesn't, so I guess that leaves just one culprit.... When you pull a white t-shirt out of the closet, you never know if it'll be covered in a rust stain or punched full of holes from stray welding sparks.

That's a good feeling, right?

"Babe...where did all of these tiny, burned-looking holes come from?!"

"Oh...sparks from when I was welding...they flew down my shirt."


As a result, he's forever asking me to pick up more t-shirts or bringing them home from the Wal-Marts when he's in town running errands, which is exactly what he did this last time. When he got home with his loot, he asked me if I could wash 'em.

"Absolutely! I'm good at washing."

Fast forward a couple of days, and he goes to the closet to get a t-shirt. He puts it on.

"Um, Susie Homemaker, did you baby huey this shirt?"

That's code for: "Woman, did you shrink another one of my shirts in the dryer to the extent that my belly is now sticking out of the bottom?"

"Baby huey" is a verb in our house.

Every single t-shirt was too tight, too small, and entirely too short. I knew I wasn't THAT bad at washing clothes! Come to find out, he'd picked up a package of boys' x-large t-shirts, not men's. Whew. I was in the clear.

And let's all take a moment to picture him in those teeny shirts.



Lucky for me, I guess: I am now the proud, new owner of five bright, white t-shirts. Good for sleeping in, working in, lounging in, and running through the sprinkler.

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