My friend asked how our Christmas party went for the writers.
It was a lot of fun and went very well except for one little hiccup. My Sweet Al wore a very expensive shirt, which he received as a Christmas gift. He was determined he was going to pin his name tag on his new silk shirt. I had to wrestle him to the floor and forcibly take his name tag away from him so he wouldn’t poke a hole in it.
He was not happy, because he was the only one without a name tag. I told him whoever asked him he could just tell them he was Sweet Al. They didn’t need to read his name; he could say it.
When I told my friend I had to keep an eye on him because he’s unaware of what he is wearing, she asked, “What do you mean?”
“It’s this way. When I see an old man in different kinds of plaids and floral, I wonder who dresses him. I say that man needs a good wife. If he had a good wife, he wouldn’t go out in public that way.”
Everything I am opinionated about comes back to bite me. I can’t keep up with my Sweet Al. At home, he wears rags with holes. I tell him he doesn’t have to look like a hobo. He has better clothes.
He maintains he is crawling under the car or painting and he isn’t wearing his good clothes. But he forgets to change and goes to town looking like he’s wifeless. If I get to those old worn-out T-shirts first, I cut them up for rags so he won’t wear them. But, I am preoccupied writing another book, so he slips by me.
I told my friend the other day Al went to town wearing a black T-shirt with “MOM” across the stomach.
“Like, Hot Mom?”
“No, like Pregnant Mom. I asked him where he got that maternity shirt?”
He said, “I don’t know. It was brand new, it still had the tags on it.”
I think Al has a thing going on with the ladies at the thrift store. I told them not to sell him anything. But, he comes home with things he doesn’t need. Like ties. He hasn’t worn a tie since our daughter’s wedding in 1986.
My friend saw him at the thrift store and he was buying something to set up a tent. When she told me, I said, “He doesn’t own a tent and will never sleep in a tent again.” Is he living in the past? Why would he be buying that?
She said she asked him what he had in his hand and he said it was something for his tent and it was only $1.95. It’s all about the find. If it’s a good deal, he buys it.
Our grandson came by the other week and said to his granddad, “Hi, Soccer Mom.”
He was wearing a black shirt with big pink letters, which read, “Soccer Mom.” I asked him, “Where did you get that shirt? We don’t have anyone in our family who plays soccer?”
“I don’t know. It was in my closet.”
Our other daughter bought me a blouse for my birthday. The design on the fabric had stiletto heels on it. She said to her dad, “I know how you are about shoes; I better not see Mother’s blouse on you.”
Our youngest daughter noticed her dad wearing her socks. She told him. “Daddy, you have my socks on.”
I looked down to see red plaid socks and thought, “At least they match.” I need to get with the program. Apparently, Al needs a good wife who isn’t preoccupied with writing a book.
Blessed is the man who finds a good wife. So, what is a good wife? Al had a mother who waited on him hand and foot and enabled him. His mother didn’t understand what Al needed when he picked a wife. She wanted a mother for Al who would iron creases in his blue jeans, polish his shoes and dote over him.
There is not a motherly bone in my body. She never understood me. Good is defined as better or best. My Sweet Al found the best wife for him. He lives with a creative wife. One who wants to paint, write and decorate his home — who taught his children to see sunsets and rainbows and who plans over-the-top parties — and one who dreams big.
He was blessed with a wife who thought no task was too large and the word “box” wasn’t in her vocabulary. One who believed, “until death do you part.” He received another perk: one who teaches him the Bible every morning and describes God in color, and even speaks a little Greek to him. My goodness, what a dull life he would’ve had if he had settled for someone his mother picked out for him.
Is there a wife for hire out there? Maybe I need to hire him a wife who will dress him and keep an eye on him so I can create and do my things. He wore his nice Cabela’s shoes over to our daughter’s house, crawled under the house in the mud and ruined them.
Final brushstroke: So, what is a good wife for my Sweet Al? I haven’t figured it out yet, but I can tell you one thing: Al owns one good shirt without a hole in it.
