I have a real problem. Or, maybe it’s an actual skill that I’ve been training for all of my life.
Whichever it is, it’s something my husband refers to as “remarkable.”
Friends, family and occasional strangers are forever pointing out random, and sometimes inexplicable, stains on most of my shirts. I’m not a sloppy person, per se, but I have an uncanny ability to propel food from its container, my plate, my fork, my fingers onto my clothing. Hell, I’ve even had other people’s food go airborne finding a safe landing dead center on me. Sometimes I think I should just wear a tasteful tarp. They’re cheap, disposable and can be quite fashionable when cinched at the waist.
The forensic evidence of my one-woman food fight is clear when I pick up the dry cleaning. Without fail several of my shirts come back with that little, “WE ARE SORRY BUT…” tags around the hanger.
The tag is pretty humiliating. After the “WE ARE SORRY BUT…” it goes on to say, “We’ve tried and tried but we find that the stains on this garment cannot be removed without possible injury to the color or fabric.”
But what that tiny tag really implies is “We’re sorry, but quite frankly, you are the biggest slob of all of our customers. However, we do appreciate your stain business. Good luck at your next meal.”
One time when at least a half a dozen of these tags came back with the cleaning my husband posted it on Facebook with the caption, “One week of Marianne’s dry cleaning and six of these tags. Remarkable.”
I know why food constantly finds its way on to my clothing. It’s hereditary. I got this from my Dad.
Growing up we constantly teased him about the food stains, usually Italian red sauce, which constantly adorned his shirts. One night after a linguini marinara dinner my brothers and I gave him a round of applause because not one drop landed on his shirt. He was so proud he grabbed his tie and held it up with a flourish exclaiming, “Ta Da!!” And there it was. A fresh greasy dab of marinara sauce under his tie. Now, that takes some spill skill.
I rarely even know when stains are on me. I remember chatting with Bob while making him a late morning breakfast. I’d had mine hours ago. He stopped in mid-conversation to ask, “What is that?” as he pointed to my chest.
I looked down to see a blob of dried egg yolk dead center in the v-neck of my fresh white tee shirt. “Well, at least I won’t be getting one of those tags from the dry cleaners!” I said as I washed it off.
Needless to say, that same shirt did not make it through lunch.