The Shit My Husband Buys

Oct 14, 2020

I consider myself a loving and caring wifey, which means I don’t wear an oversized cat shirt to bed.  That doesn’t mean I have negligees for every night of the week.  It’s more that I have an assortment of tank tops that my hubby has deemed as good boobie shirts. After 20+ years, these are acceptable substitutes for negligees.

It was early fall and Kaveh was working the night shift at the hospital.  The temperatures had ever so slightly dropped, and I wanted something cozier than my standard tank top to sleep in.  So I reached for one of Kaveh’s T-shirts.  

Now twenty years ago, I would have grabbed the one on the top of the drawer, hoping that it had been recently worn, still smelling of his cologne.  I would have raised the soft cotton shirt to my face and taken in his smell with a grin from cheek to cheek. 

Oh how the times have changed. 

The top shirt is the last thing I’m gonna be grabbing.  The shirts on the top have likely been worn two to three times already, have a slightly musty odor, and an unidentifiable stain on the belly button.  These are his favorites.  They are typically his college shirts or a local brewery shirt.  He is simply unable to leave a brewery without purchasing the proper paraphernalia.  

The one thing going for these shirts is that they are as soft as a baby’s ass.  They have been worn and washed for many years and will live on for many more regardless of the stains.  The only doom for such a cherished shirt is a random hole.  Even then, many simply become gym shirts.

So I reached deep into the bottom of the drawer, grabbing out a tightly rolled blue shirt that felt as those it was brand-spankin new. “Perfect”, I thought to myself.  I threw it on, jumped into bed and called it a night. 

The sun rose the next morning and it was time to start the day.  Homeschooling had its challenges but the kids getting to sleep-in was by far the best perk.  That extra hour is precious to me and not to be fucked with.  

I crawled out of bed and headed to the kitchen for a cup of tea.   If I can fight my addiction and my need for a hit of social media, I would have a chance to get some good writing done. 

As I walked by the front door, I saw a sprinkler shooting straight into the sky.  I hurried outside and shut off the water at the control box.  

Sweet little old Darlene, from up the street, was out for her daily stroll with her cocker spaniel.  I waved to her, and she walked over to me to ask how we are holding up through covid.  I assured her that we are doing fine.  We made small talk about the weather and the pandemic, surprised that a global pandemic can now be used as small talk.

Darlene often talks for extended periods of time.  She lives alone with no family in town so I always make time for her when I see her.  

But that morning she seemed a little quiet.  Dare I say, without words. 🤔She quickly wrapped up our conversation and continued on her brisk walk with one very odd glance back in my direction.

I headed back inside and as I walked by the entryway mirror, I caught a glimpse of myself.  I first realized that I had black mascara under my eyes, which made me look like a tired middle-aged mom.  Well, that, or a strung-out crack head.  Fun fact: At times these can be very similar looks.  

What I saw next floored me.  There in the mirror, saw white letters boldly written across my shirt.  They were flipped and thought to myself.  “What is this word I am reading?”

It was early, and it took a moment for my mind to catch up.  Then it happened, I unscrambled the reflection to reveal that the shirt read “Vagitarian”.   


Yup,  I chatted it up with my 75-year-old conservative neighbor wearing a shirt that read, “Vagitarian”. 🙄

 Damn you, Amazon!  Damn you!  

Now you have my money and my dignity.   

⚠️ WARNING ⚠️ 

It’s Amazon Prime Days.  Don’t let your loved ones play on their phones tonight or risk finding some crazy nonsense like this at your door step in 48 hours.

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