I read the label on my chic, overpriced raincoat today. It says, "DRY CLEAN ONLY." Why would a raincoat need to be dry cleaned? THAT is ridiculous.
I've owned the damn thing for over a year and I notice the label on the same day that the local dry cleaners misplaced six of my husbands best, Brooks Brothers shirts. I spent 20 minutes watching a revolving rack of crisp, button-down cotton shirts dressed in wisps of plastic, whimsically swirl round, and round, and round--one after the other, after the other, after the other... It was maddening.
John, the owner of the dry cleaners, thinks my husband misplaced them. That is not only improbable, it's impossible. My husband, a devout creature of habit, drops the same number of shirts off every Saturday. He neatly places his six, soiled shirts on hangers and lines them up according to their huge.
Yes, it's true, if these were my shirts--typically deposited balled and inside out--misplacing them would not only be probable it would be logical. But this is my polar opposite, the ying to my yang--a man who folds his soiled dinner napkin and his dirty socks--this guy knows where and when he drops off his shirts.
Unfortunately, John doesn't stamp your last name on the inside collar of your shirts. The cleaner around the corner does. That's where I met my second husband. His family owned the store. I stopped going there after our divorce. Who could blame me. I didn't want to air my dirty laundry in from of the x-inlaws.
True story (so bizarre I must preference it by saying true story) ...
The x-inlaws, dry cleaning store would annually clean out their basement and discard any clothes that people forgot to pick-up. By "discard" I mean family members had first pickings before they carted them off to various clothing donation centers.
I was standing in my then boyfriend/now x-husbands living-room when his mother entered with two fists full of shirts. "These fit you good Eddie," she said in a thick chinese accent.
As much as I hated to admit it, she was right, they did fit Eddie good. And I liked them. They were nice looking shirts, well made, "sharp," as my father would say.
So I took a closer look. Stamped on the inside collar was the customers last name, MAGANN. Magann--not a common name. If you google it you'll find very few MAGANN's, lots of McGANN's but very few MAGANN's.
Turns out locating "MAGANN" was easier than anyone might have thought considering the fact that the shirts belonged to Terry, my son's father (my then X, now twice removed - confused?).
"Shit Eddie," I gawked,"Terry was wearing this shirt when you met him," pointing to a gingham blue, long sleeve, 100% cotton twill shirt.
Now MAGANN is someone who forgot where he placed his shirts (and his car keys and his marriage vows) but I assure you, lucky husband number three, knows exactly where his shirts are--all but six of them.