I have to tell you this story. El Hubbo has banned me from telling anymore stories on him unless I am equally periodically humiliated. Little does he know that I have no problem telling stories on myself that I find objectively humorous. And, besides, I do love telling stories on El Hubbo, so the sacrifice is worth it.
El Hubbo is a high maintenance trophy husband. (He promised me a vast empire when he asked me to marry him. I am still searching for that vast empire. Every time I express a doubt about its existence, he vehemently defends his claim that it does not reside only in his mind. I shall continue my search, but I digress.)
Keeping him in properly starched and pressed jeans and shirts requires the operating budget of a medium-sized country. Apparently, no real Texas man would have it otherwise. He has developed quite a relationship with the ladies at the dry-cleaning store since his wife refuses to stand over a boiling cauldron in the back yard starching his jeans. (Note to El Hubbo: think twice before you make any comments about me and cauldrons-consider thyself warned.). These ladies know him by sight and have pre-printed tickets made up with the starch amount and special creased sleeves request for him.
One recent day, he asked his loving wife (that's me) to pick up his dry cleaning. I swung by the bank to take out a small loan and headed that way.
The "girls" at the register teamed up to bring out his mountain of clothing and started the supercomputer so they could tally up the bill.
When I recovered from fainting at the quote, I pulled out my debit card and said a little prayer. The girl manning the register took my card and looked at the picture. I happen to have a personalized card that has a picture of the offspring in one of their cuter, more photographically cooperative moments. She says, "Oh, how cute! Are these your", wait for it......wait for it..... "Grandchildren?"
Many, many thoughts crossed my mind as I stood there looking at her incredulously. It is at minimum unwise, nay, some would say foolish to call a recently-turned-forty-years-of-age woman a grandmother. In my mind, I envisioned myself launching into the air and over the counter with a knife clenched in my teeth, brandishing a sword, my face painted partially blue like one of my ancient clan ancestors from the old country. I'd cut out her heart and hold it aloft for all my enemies to see! (Ok, maybe I have seen Braveheart a few too many times.)
Instead I rose to my full height, looked down my nose to give it the full disdainful, I-think-you-are-an-idiot tone, channeled my grandmother's perfect enunciation, and said, "No, those are my children."
I returned to my car, thoroughly steaming and carrying on a complete monologue about the issues with the girl's eyesight in my head. In a moment of insecurity, I checked the rear view mirror. Granted, I was not a dewy twenty-year-old, and maybe my gray hairs were making a slightly noticeable appearance at the root-level. But, I certainly did NOT look old enough to be my children's grandmother! I pulled my cellphone out to make an appointment to get those grays eradicated.
When I got home, I told El Hubbo he could go get his clothes out of the car. I then told him the story. The man guffawed-YES, he GUFFAWED! I stood there , hand on hip, single eyebrow raised, re-running Braveheart scenarios in my head. When he managed to catch his breath I informed him, "Yuk it up, Funny Man. You are picking up your own laundry from now on!"
El Hubbo is a high maintenance trophy husband. (He promised me a vast empire when he asked me to marry him. I am still searching for that vast empire. Every time I express a doubt about its existence, he vehemently defends his claim that it does not reside only in his mind. I shall continue my search, but I digress.)
Keeping him in properly starched and pressed jeans and shirts requires the operating budget of a medium-sized country. Apparently, no real Texas man would have it otherwise. He has developed quite a relationship with the ladies at the dry-cleaning store since his wife refuses to stand over a boiling cauldron in the back yard starching his jeans. (Note to El Hubbo: think twice before you make any comments about me and cauldrons-consider thyself warned.). These ladies know him by sight and have pre-printed tickets made up with the starch amount and special creased sleeves request for him.
One recent day, he asked his loving wife (that's me) to pick up his dry cleaning. I swung by the bank to take out a small loan and headed that way.
The "girls" at the register teamed up to bring out his mountain of clothing and started the supercomputer so they could tally up the bill.
When I recovered from fainting at the quote, I pulled out my debit card and said a little prayer. The girl manning the register took my card and looked at the picture. I happen to have a personalized card that has a picture of the offspring in one of their cuter, more photographically cooperative moments. She says, "Oh, how cute! Are these your", wait for it......wait for it..... "Grandchildren?"
Many, many thoughts crossed my mind as I stood there looking at her incredulously. It is at minimum unwise, nay, some would say foolish to call a recently-turned-forty-years-of-age woman a grandmother. In my mind, I envisioned myself launching into the air and over the counter with a knife clenched in my teeth, brandishing a sword, my face painted partially blue like one of my ancient clan ancestors from the old country. I'd cut out her heart and hold it aloft for all my enemies to see! (Ok, maybe I have seen Braveheart a few too many times.)
Instead I rose to my full height, looked down my nose to give it the full disdainful, I-think-you-are-an-idiot tone, channeled my grandmother's perfect enunciation, and said, "No, those are my children."
I returned to my car, thoroughly steaming and carrying on a complete monologue about the issues with the girl's eyesight in my head. In a moment of insecurity, I checked the rear view mirror. Granted, I was not a dewy twenty-year-old, and maybe my gray hairs were making a slightly noticeable appearance at the root-level. But, I certainly did NOT look old enough to be my children's grandmother! I pulled my cellphone out to make an appointment to get those grays eradicated.
When I got home, I told El Hubbo he could go get his clothes out of the car. I then told him the story. The man guffawed-YES, he GUFFAWED! I stood there , hand on hip, single eyebrow raised, re-running Braveheart scenarios in my head. When he managed to catch his breath I informed him, "Yuk it up, Funny Man. You are picking up your own laundry from now on!"
So what you are really saying here is that thought El Hubbo was your son?!?!?!
ReplyDeleteVery funny, "Anonymous". Better hope I don't figure out who you are.
Delete-WTM