LA-Z Boy And Other Fashion Disasters

Hi.

I just have a silly post to share with you tonight, which I kind of feel bad about because the last post I wrote brought a lot of feedback- not necessarily in the form of comments, but in phone calls, messages, and face-to-face conversations.  By the way, do you all know how much I love it when people want to talk to me about what I write?  I'm like Bette Midler in Beaches, "But enough about me.  Let's talk about you.  What do you think of me?" It's so completely narcissistic.  You should know, however, that I do try to negate the narcissism with the mere awareness of the narcissism.  Can a person really be a narcissist if they realize they're being narcissistic?

If a tree falls in an empty forest, does it really make a sound?

I don't know where I'm going with this.  But I do thank you for your feedback.  Even when it's not positive, I still love it (As long as it's not mean.  Please don't be mean.  I'm still not a big enough person to handle meanness in a mature manner.)

Anyway, another blogger once wrote that writing a post and not receiving any comments is like "throwing a party and watching at the window as everybody just drives by".  She nailed it exactly.  So thank you and please keep the comments coming!  

Anyway, blah, blah, blah.  Let me get back to my intro.  What I was saying is that I feel like I should write something a little more clever and thought provoking than what I'm about to write.  But I'm not.  I'm writing about something that has been bumping around in my head ever since I wrote Happy Pants.  This is a silly post about clothes.  Not just any clothes, I'm talking about those clothes.  You know... those clothes?  The clothing items that maybe, perhaps, are owned and loved by your spouse  that you secretly dream of burning and then taking the ashes to a field so a tractor can run over them and then a horse or two can crap on them before the whole mess decomposes into muddy soil?

You know?  Those clothes?

 I remember a fight that my parents had in the late 70's/early 80's that was caused by such an item of clothing.  It was a shirt my mom had.  In fact, she wore it almost every day as part of her "housewife" uniform.  It doesn't look that bad from the front.  In fact, I have a picture of it here*:

Shoot.  It's blurry.  What it says is "Okay America, Show Us Your......"

Those three little dots are like the modern day version of "Wait for it....." cuz on the back there was this:

In case you can't tell, that's the outline of a butt.  And my mom wore it proudly over her Jordache jeans, despite my dad's protests that it was a tacky shirt.  I think I remember her arguing back that she got it free because she bought some Hanes Her Way underwear.  I don't know.  

To be honest, as a kid, I didn't even realize it was supposed to be a butt.  Maybe I just thought it was a big W with the word "Underalls" in it.  I've always been on a little slow on the uptake. 

Anyway.  So then I grew up, got married, and learned that my own husband owned a shirt that was equally, if not more, tacky. 

Yup.  There it is. LA-Z Boy Furniture Gallery.  

He got that at the Goodwill, which, you know....(sigh)  I have nothing against the Good Will.  It's just that this shirt, with it's holes, and worn down, see thru material... it needs all the help it can get.  Knowing that someone else wore it long enough to the point where they decided it was Good Will material and that my husband then dropped his 75 cents and has been wearing it every weekend makes me feel like I need to follow him around with a can of Lysol.  

Sometimes I do, but only on the sly. 

Here's the other thing I hate about this shirt:  the fact that it says LA Z Boy.  Mr. C is not really lazy, but sometimes when he's laying on the couch, wearing that shirt, beer in hand, it's like the shirt is egging me on.   In my head I can almost hear the chanting: "Lazy boy!  Lazy boy!  You're married to a lazy boy!"  

So I get testy.  Do you blame me?  

Don't answer that.  

Anyway, that's it.  My silly little post.  Feel free to share any clothing stories that you may have.  I, personally, do not possess any  embarrassing clothing items...... ahem!....that are worn on the outside.  

(There is something to be said for elastic waistbands that reach over your belly button, but you didn't hear it from me.)

Have a good night!   

*Disclaimer- I know posting this picture is going to make my sister mad.  I'm doing it anyway because I'm a big sister and well, that's just what I do.  Can someone who knew us back in the day please help this situation by vouching that she was never really that chubby?  It's just a weird camera angle, I swear.