OUR EYES MET IN THE POTATO CHIP AISLE... A tale of political differences and good underpants.
Spring cleaning brings such memories....
Spring cleaning is such an ambitious and perplexing endeavor.
Where to start? What to keep? What to toss? Where can I donate that? Can I live without this? If I toss this will it mess with my feng shui? Do I even have any feng shui? Does this bring me joy? Does this fit? When was the last time I wore that? Why’d I even buy this? Why don’t I just wait until next spring?
Why bother? Let the grandkids deal with it when I’m dead!
Not really an option. I’m sure my Pee-Wee Herman, plastic camera, and dental bridge and false teeth collections would end up in the garbage. I’d hate to think what they’d do my t-shirt collection that been growing expotentially for nearly 50 years.
I know. I’d be dead, so what difference would it make and how would I even know?
Oh. I’d know, those disrespectful little shits. They’ll just crumple up the very essence of me and attempt a Caitlyn Clark 35-foot jump shot into the recycle bin ——and miss it by a mile. And they’d just leave it there.
It’s inevitable. Those disrespectful little shits.
Maybe I do need to tackle spring cleaning and bequeath some of me to those who will preserve important parts of my life at least until I’m dead or until they do their own spring cleaning.
So back to the beginning. Spring cleaning. Where to start?
T-shirts I guess.
I’ve been an avid collector my whole life. I was blessed not to have a shirt and tie profession. T-shirts were perfectly acceptable. Much like a picture, every one tells a story. When I couldn’t find one with a story I felt needed to be told, I became a t-shirt maker.
The drawer I opened had some of the shirts I had made during the COVID years, when life as we knew it changed course. When friendships were lost, families cleaved and the nation’s motto shifted from “In God We Trust” to “I’m right, you’re wrong, you asshole.”
I was COVID shy, a masker and always very well vaccinated and marinated, which didn’t sit well with many. It sure made for some good t-shirt making. What better way to shout your message without uttering a word? Wear it! Nonverbal communication at its best.
Halfway through the stack, I found one of my favorites. And does it have a story to tell! It seems like only yesterday.
For his wedding reception, a friend asked if I would make a batch of my quite famous “OH MERCY! I Died and Gone to Heaven” baked beans. One spoonful and people do shout that. They truly are that good, if I do say so myself. (And I just did.)
How could I say no to him? Besides, to me it seemed like the perfect way to kick off their wedded bliss with a fanfare. Potentially many, actually. Beans, beans the musical fruit, you know. On their wedding night. I didn’t say a word but giggled at the thought of it.
As I was gathering all the ingredients, I found I was missing a green pepper. Couldn’t do without one. Another trip to the grocery store. My third one that day. It threw me into a very pissy mood.
I know: make a list. Why? What’s the fun in that? I’d forget it anyway.
I’m heading down the very dangerous potato chip aisle where every bag is tempting with its own sexy come-hither look when I see this woman staring at me. More than staring but not really glaring. She made me a bit uncomfortable, although I was looking quite striking in my Sunday best: t-shirt, jeans, running shoes and a purple paisley face mask which is pretty much like I wear every day.
This woman was no slouch in the wardrobe department either. While she wasn’t wearing a mask, she was wearing an extra roomy, barely pale blue t-shirt emblazoned with a fading “Living the Fucking Good Life” in what used to be red and blue over what could have been a forest scene. Maybe mountains. It was hard to tell since almost every bit of detail had been washed out of it. As if that wasn’t enough, the whole front of it was bedazzled with probably what she had had for breakfast, which from the looks of it was biscuits and gravy, a sunny side up egg, something with grape jelly, coffee and what I hope was tomato juice rather than blood.
But I was just glancing, mind you. Not staring. Just looking.
After taking in all that the shirt had to offer, my eyes moved up to her face and I saw that she was squinting. She wasn’t sizing me up. She was reading MY shirt.
And then…..our eyes met.
“I LOVE your shirt!” she said with absolute glee.
I’m thinking her eyesight is really bad or perhaps her reading skills aren’t so great. She with no mask and me with a mask and a shirt with a very pro-mask message that I made all by myself.
“Really? You like it?” I asked.
“I do,” she said. “And we ARE going to make it great again. We’re going to make America even greater than it is!”
“I think maybe you misread my shirt, ma’am. It says, ‘Let’s Make America Well Again.’ Not GREAT again but WELL again. And then it says ‘Save a Life. Wear a Mask.’ But I’m glad you like it. It’d look good on you, that’s for sure.”
And then she blurted out an noxious sound that was as disgusting as the disgust she apparently felt. Not quite like inverted flatulence but sort of. It was primal in its delivery, yet perfectly eloquent in its meaning.
I got the impression she really didn’t like my shirt. Or me. I was crushed. I’ll just add her to the list. Everyone’s a critic…especially in those days.
She snarled and as she turned to leave after grabbing an armful of potato chips and a couple bags of puffy Cheetos, I noticed that her shirt was tucked into her underpants that were blousing out from her stretchy-waisted black leggings that were low riding all the way down on the bottom third of her fleshy hind end.
Obviously her mother never gave her the advice about wearing nice underwear when you go out in public. Not that I noticed, but these were a pair of tattered pale pink ones with little red polka dots. The elastic was separating and it seemed as though most of its clinginess was stretched out and had left the building long ago.
Okay. So I noticed. It was hard not too. If only I could have imitated that noxious sound of hers…but I settled for a muffled guffaw instead. Such a sight to behold.
Suddenly my pissy mood went away. I had a big smile on my face, a green pepper in hand along with a 12-pack of beer and two bags of crunchy Cheetos, and I had my good underpants on because I was out in public and I always heed my mother’s advice.
Well, sometimes.
So this “Make America Well Again” t-shirt. How could I possibly get rid of it? I can’t. It has such a story to tell.
What a day it turned to be. The baked beans were a big hit at my friend’s wedding reception. While I’m not sure if they tooted up his wedding night, something must have. They divorced three months later. Talk about spring cleaning….
My own spring cleaning? I closed the drawer.
Maybe next year.
Doubtful.
I’ll let the grandkids deal with it, those disrespectful little shits.
I truly loved this outpouring. Made me hoot, not toot, but hoot. You are so darn clever. Keep these coming.
Awesome, as usual.