Death of a T-Shirt

I would like to know, PLEASE, why my husband can be completely counted on to not be able to be counted on. Not in the BIG things - he loves me, he works hard, blah, blah, blah. But if something is important to me - and isn't important to him, he will invariably feign interest and then, once I've left the room, he will let it drain straight of out of his brain through his ears.

I have this taupe colored tee. It was expensive. It has great detail. It is a central part of my overall wardrobe as it goes with everything. Further, and most importantly, it looks really good on me. For any woman who has the miserable fashion misfortune to be big busted, finding something that hangs well and doesn't make her look like she is shopping in the maternity department is very difficult. I am such a woman. And for a woman my age, the idea that someone might possibly wonder if she is wearing maternity clothes is enough to keep her from leaving the house at all. (Not that it would be impossible, but it would be embarrassing.)

So this morning, coming home from church, I stopped the car in front of the driveway and asked princess Grace if she would please go pick up the newspaper and bring it into the house. You would have thought I had asked her to cut the grass with tweezers. After much whining and groaning, she opened the door, took the 4 apparently unspeakable and painful steps to the paper, climbed back into the back seat (for the remaining 5 second drive to the house) and, so that we could be quite clear about what a complete imposition the request was on her life, she belligerently tossed the paper into the front seat. Naturally, the paper hit the cup of coffee I was holding and coffee splashed all over my taupe tee. Any spiritual benefit I may have received from this morning's sermon flew out the door at that moment. I didn't even get to carry it through lunch.

Now you need to know that I realize this is not a life changing catastrophe and normally I wouldn't flinch at splashed coffee on stuff I wear around. A little "Spray 'n Wash" and we're in business. But this, as I mentioned, is an important shirt. I ran into the house, took it off, pre-treated it and put it immediately into the "we-promise-this-speed-will-not-ruin-your-delicates" cycle, with Woolite. All by itself (which I never do).

About 20 minutes later, I left with Grace to go have her hair cut. (It was my great pleasure to have a full day of whining and groaning with Grace.) Half way to the salon, I remembered my tee in the wash. I pulled out my cell, pulled over, dialed Bob. Had he not picked it up, I would have turned around - BUT HE DID!!!

"Bob", I said, " this is important". To make certain he was listening, I waited for a response. "What is it?", he asked me. "My shirt is in the wash". I should tell you that Bob was in the car when the damage had been done so he was well aware of the pressing nature of the subject at hand. "I don't know whether or not the girls plan to do their laundry", I went on, "but my tee is in the washing machine and it CANNOT be put in the dryer. Please go take it out and hang it up in the bathroom to dry." "Okay, honey. I'll go do that right now so I won't forget". "Thanks, Bob. Bye". And off I went. Tra-la.

Not once did I think of it again. I was not bothered by how I would put together various other items in my closet without the benefit of this one, neutral, miracle shirt that makes many fabulous, nice fitting outfits out of completely random and unrelated pieces. I did not concern myself today with wishing I could have breast reduction surgery so that I didn't have to go out and try to find prescription sized apparel for my upper half. Again, tra-la.

When I got home with Grace, nearly three hours later, the house was empty. All the girls were out and so was Bob. I had managed to get Grace to cooperate with the stylist and cut about 5 inches from her snarled hair. I had found her a dress and shoes to wear to a wedding we are attending next week. I had even found a dress for Amanda, whose college closet does not include a basic cocktail dress. I deserved to lay down and close my eyes for a few minutes. And it was during this 30 minute snooze that the story goes sour.

When I got up, the girls had already come home. I went to talk to Jennifer. Chat, chat, yadda, yadda, and then back into my room. Suddenly, my mind's camera flashed a photo of Jenny's room. The sheets were missing from her bed. I ran down the hall. "Jennifer! Are you doing laundry?" "Yes." "Was my shirt in there?" "Yes, but I put it in the dryer."

Aaaaaarrrrgh!

She brought it to me. It looked okay. But I put it on and the sleeves are a little too snug around my biceps. The seams are slightly puckered. And now it is stretched too tightly across the bust it used to camouflage. It is ruined. I went to anntaylor.com. The item is no longer in stock. And Bob is not home yet so I can't kill him.

I called him and I got the usual apologies: "Oh no! I can't believe I did that! I feel terrible! I even wrote it down so I wouldn't forget! Are you sure its ruined? Oh Valri, this is really awful. I am so sorry..." And I imagine him thinking about what he wants for dinner while he's talking to me.

I'm sorry but I am SO pissed off! When I think of the times in the past 18 years that I have heard: "I'll pick it up for you", "I'll tell the girls what you said", "I'll take care of that", "Don't worry, I'll bring it right back", "I promise not to lose it"... like so much gas rising into the atmosphere. And what's more, nearly every woman I know has a similar complaint about her husband or some guy. I am sick to death of hearing how men think "differently" than women. How they don't have the capacity that women have to remember details. I am tired of carrying around all those "details" in my head. My head is so heavy with details I have to remember that it feels like a sandbag perched on top of my neck. And I'm not buying any of it. I think, at the root of it all is a simple truth. They don't care.

I saw on the Discovery Channel that technology has advanced to the degree that the world actually no longer needs men to survive. This apparently, is a fact. Admittedly, I would miss them a great deal but if they want to stay in the game, as it were, I suggest they get with the program.

In the meantime, my husband owes me a new shirt. And when he gets the bill, I assure you that is one detail he will not soon forget.