No, that's not right. What I meant to say was, if you've been reading this blog for very long, you know I have a long-standing tradition of visiting StuffMart twice a week to pick up milk and to replace my sons' socks and underwear, which disappear under strange and unexplained circumstances. They're the only people I know who, upon walking to the end of our driveway to get the mail, leave fully clothed and return with nothing more than half a t-shirt, the back pocket from their jeans, and two shoes (usually not matching) - and no mail. And that's not even during tornado season.
Anyway. As I tunneled out from under Mt. Laundry lately, I noticed more than the usual number of boys' underwear on the west slope. Unfortunately, nearly every pair looked as though it had been used to smuggle cactus from Brazil to Canada. What's up with that? My girls are still wearing underwear they've had since they outgrew princess panties. What in the world goes on inside a boy's pair of jeans that turns his briefs into shop rags after only one or two wearings?
That was a rhetorical question. I don't think I really want to know the answer.
So I was in Florida last week, and I mentioned to my mother-in-law (who is a 5-star mother-in-law except for when she spoils her son, Mr. TC, and then I have to re-teach him that cold cereal with milk is too a meal and he better be darn glad for it because those boxes of Raisin Bran don't just jump into the shopping cart by themselves, thankyouverrymuch) that I wanted to visit the nearby outlet mall.
She agreed, saying, "Oh, good. I need to visit the Vanity Fair store to get some new underwear. I just don't know where mine have disappeared to."
I swear I am not making this up. And, yes, I'm concerned. Unfortunately, she didn't have any bridge games while we were there, so I wasn't able to sniff the Chex mix.
Do you think it's a bad thing that I frequently get emails that start with, "I thought about you today..." and then end with a story about boxer shorts?
Like this recent message from Brandi:
"So I thought about you yesterday. I found a pair of boxer shorts lying on top of the electric winch in the driveway. I expostulated*, and Daniel picked them up without comment and put them away...on the floor of his bedroom. Well, maybe you had to be there."
(* If you're looking here for a definition of "expostulated," think again. That's what teenagers with cell phones with a Google app are for. Go ask one of them.)
(* Brandi also lives in a small town in Texas. I imagine the folks down at the Piggly Wiggly grocery get all confused when she comes in and starts throwing her vocabulary around next to the Little Debbie Snack Cake display, 'cause the longest word used in rural Texas is "fixin'tuh." As in, "I'm fixin'tuh write a letter to Jerry Jones and tell him my dead coon tick hound could coach the Cowboys better'n that Wade Phillips fella.")
(* Brandi actually talks like this in real life. She's also one of those overachieving people who, every year on her birthday, does a number of push-ups equivalent to her age, is a published writer, and is taking a Master Gardener course. The reason I have not linked her blog here is because I know some of you will want to go and toilet paper her site, and I can't be responsible for that. Besides, I already tried it myself but she distracted me with big words. So I let my dog expostulate on her lawn when she wasn't looking.)