Since the beginning of time, whenever I’ve visited my grandma, she’s taken me into her bedroom, opened the closet, and proceeded to shop for me. And not just me, either. She does this with with pretty much anyone who will stand still for it. She shops like nobody’s business, and hoards away all sorts of cheap-but-ultimately-useful junk, so I suppose the “let’s shop in grandma’s closet” routine is her way of justifying her hobby.
The last time I visited–sadly, several years ago–I was awarded a gawd-awful rubber-backed acrylic bath mat(thew)* in a disturbing shade of hot pink. Now, I’m all for pretty colors, but pink is not in my decorating vocabulary. Nevertheless, I brought the bath mat(thew) home and packed it away. I figured that I could surely find some use for it, if I thought hard enough. And, I did. Grandma’s hot pink bath mat(thew) became Elliott’s chewy spot (the place where he was Allowed to have grotty bones and whatnot). Then, a few years ago, I realized it would be a perfect way to protect the car seat from dog hair and–as it is rubber-backed–potential spewages. The rubber backing would also keep the mat in place on the seat. It worked so beautifully that I recommend that anyone who transports dogs in their car, pick up a few cheap bath mat(thew)s to lay on the seats.
So, onna counta having taken a couple of days off earlier in the week, I had to work this morning. When I reached B-ton, I realized I’d left my ginormous iced tea at home (alas and alack!), so I stopped at Bigfoot and purchased a tasty beverage. I reached work, parked my car flawlessly (an unusual enough occurrence that it merits mentioning), got out, and while collecting my various accouterments, managed to deposit the entire contents of my pepsisodapopcoke on the driver’s seat. I stood there for a moment, stunned. One, I now had no tasty beverage and only a $10 bill, so I couldn’t purchase a replacement from the vending machine. Two, my seat was saturated with wet, red stickiness. O ick. Three, I had recently spilled a Mudslide down the console (no, I wasn’t drinking and driving, I was taking a drink next door with me to a party), and had used the dog towels I keep in my car to clean up that mess and hadn’t replaced them. So, I had nothing to drink and no way to clean up the mess. Hmmm. How to replace the lost beverage, without getting my behindermost parts saturated with red, sticky goo? I know! Grandma’s bath mat(thew)! I removed it from Harriet’s spot and laid it across the driver’s seat, hopped back in my car, and returned to Bigfoot, where I was treated to a consternated look from the clerk.
Thank you, grandma, for insisting I needed a hot pink bath mat(thew).
Oh, and I managed to park all sorts of cattywampus the second time around. Hrmph.
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* There is a story there, about dogs, the mats some of them develop in their coats, and a very nice Canadian man named Matt. The long and short of it is that bath mats shall forevermore be known as bath mat(thew)s in my world. Bonus: I dare you to try saying bath mat(thew) out loud ten times, fast. If it doesn’t make you laugh (assuming you can accomplish it), then I suspect that there is something wrong with you.
red paper boat 