It's that day again...time to link up with DearBabyG to have a bit of a rant and a whine about what's given me the shits this week.
This week, I bring you one single story of FFS!?-ness, rather than a list of everything that's driven me to the brink.
Why a whole FFS!? Friday post dedicated to one single thing?
A few reasons.
Firstly, it's universal in the sense of my own extended family. Everyone has been touched by this issue - in more ways than one, as you'll find out.
Secondly, the repercussions of this one thing are still being felt to this day, and will quite likely stay that way for weeks, months, years to come. Such is the deep and serious nature of the FFS!?-ness of it.
Mostly, because it's been a really shit week. I am exhausted. School holidays plus toilet training the twin tornado has taken its toll. I don't even have the energy to have a multiple whine, so instead I'll focus on this one incident.
And here starteth the tale of....
We spent the festive season at #1 Nana and Pop's house on the coast. In return for raiding their drinks cabinet and leaving no bottle unaccounted for, I did the laundry. At least twice.
Okay so I washed it and hung it out and then I forgot about it. #1Nana took it all off the line, folded it, and dispatched it out like a good laundry lady would. All sweet smelling, perfectly folded, and not a crease in sight.
On multiple occasions there were rogue jocks. Poor, disenfranchised jocks, shunned by the society around them made up of #1 Hubby, #1 Pop and #1 Brother. Nobody claimed them. They became known as The Travelling Underpants. They were handled with finger-tweezers (tips of fingers, held at a great distance as if they were radioactive) and passed around the group. There was some murmuring and discussion, and still, nobody claimed them.
Unless you count Miss3 running around with them on her head. Seriously should've saved the money on a shiny new bike and just gifted her some of her father's freshly washed undergarments for Christmas instead.
Said Travelling Underpants have recently been unearthed again, here at Parental Parody Palace,
when I finally got fed up with climbing over the bag and unpacked it 2 weeks later.
#1 Hubby swore they weren't his. Upon closer inspection, he wasn't entirely sure they weren't his after all. So he tried them on for comfort in the same way you would a pair of shoes. After poncing around the bedroom in them for a good 4 minutes he declared them rightfully his, donned his trousers and went to work.
Alas, this story was not to have a happy ending.
Later that day, the #1 Grandparents came to visit. While I regaled the family with tales of The Travelling Underpants' homecoming, #1 Nana smirked, #1 Pop looked confused, and #1 Hubby looked content as his posterior sat snugly encompassed in The Travelling Underpants.
#1 Nana spoke :
Actually, turns out, they're your fathers.
|I'm sorry, beg pardon?|
Yes, that's right...I married a man who wears the same brand and size of underwear as my father.
And not only that, none of us could tell the difference or claim ownership without a shadow of doubt.
Which means that every time I think of #1 Hubby's formerly pinchable posterior, I now have to fight both my gag reflex and the image of #1 Pop's smirking face as we all realised that his 'noisy' rear was the usual occupant of the Travelling Underpants that #1 Hubby was sporting.
I am emotionally scarred. I will never look at #1 Hubby's rear the same way again. In fact, I'm trying to never look at it at all.
I repeat, FFS!?