MOVarazzi

Friday, September 2, 2011

500. Contraband

So I am a bit of a snob when it comes to towels. It wasn’t always this way. Growing up, a towel was a towel was a towel … I mean, really, who cares? It can dry you off, then you get dressed. What difference does it make? But I blame my wedding guests for turning me into the Virgo Towel Snob that I am today:  Someone gave us bath towels off our registry for a gift.

The minute I opened the linen wrapping paper and crinoline bow on that box of towels, I knew my life had changed forever. It was exactly like Lady Diana must’ve felt when Prince Charles slipped that 48-carat sapphire and diamond engagement ring on her finger. It felt like:  Royalty.

These towels were beyond plush; they were like blankets. Thick, thirsty, luscious, heavy, cottony, pristine white blankets of goodness. Imagine going to the nicest hotel in the world (think Ritz Carlton, but much nicer), and imagine checking into the Presidential Suite, and imagine taking a steamy shower and what kind of towels would be hanging there. Oh, no, my friend, the Ritz towels look like a sad little washcloth impostor from the local Chevron station next to my amazing towels.

For the next two years, every time I got out of the shower and reached for my gorgeous, 5-inch thick Pottery Barn towels from Turkey, I said to myself, “This is why I got married.”

Imagine my surprise when I reached for my towel one day, and found a thin, see-thru, pathetic minuscule sheet of paper posing as a towel on my towel rack.

I was not happy. The towel could barely dry my ear, let alone my entire body. Where had this towel come from? How had it gotten past the front door, into the house, and to its current spot hanging on the towel rack next to the shower?

Turns out, as usual, The Husband was to blame. I greeted him at the door that night, dripping wet. Water was raining from my freshly-shampooed hair, and a giant puddle of more water followed me throughout the house. I was making my point.

“Where did this come from?” I said, holding up the offending wannabe “towel.”

“Uh, Pottery Barn?” he replied, handing me an umbrella.

“Ha! You and I both know that Pottery Barn does not sell things like this,” here I held out the thin towel for closer inspection and more sneering. “Be honest. Tell me where it came from.”

For some reason, The Husband is not up on inventory of household objects like I am. He merely shrugged and said, “Maybe it got mixed up in my bag at the gym.”

I gasped. His gym does not provide towels, which means that he took one of our (my!) Pottery Barn towels with him and accidentally got stuck with a fellow gym-goer’s towel instead. How could he do this? And how could he not notice as he was leaving that he grabbed the wrong towel? Some random stranger was now reaping the benefits of the Pottery Barn blanket-towel, and we would most likely never see our (my!) beloved Pottery Barn towel again.

Why would you take one of the good towels to the gym with you in the first place, Sweetie? Why not take a Costco beach towel, or maybe an old rag or something?” I offered helpfully to my 6’4” tall husband who could certainly dry off with something not as nice or big as our Pottery Barn towels.

He looked me right in the eye and said, “I’m used to the thicker towels now. I like them better.”

MOV

5 comments:

  1. Creating your own monster there MOV! I've got a 20 year old monster. The husband is still pretty low maintenance. Enjoy the weekend!;-)

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  2. Hi Patty,

    I think you are right! I have created my own (fluffy-towel-loving) monster! Yikes.

    I checked out those crazy giant mushrooms on your blog. Wow. We have some in our yard now, too, I swear a whole family of armadillos could live under there.

    Enjoy your holiday weekend too!

    best,
    MOV =)

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  3. First the petential chocolate theft and now the towels. I don't understand why you stay with the man! ;-)

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  4. I often wonder that myself......... but he does have a good side (for example, he buys me my favorite white wine at Trader Joe's without me even asking!).

    best,
    MOV

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  5. OMG - <3 your writing...I am sure on PNW you are dying to red pen my comma over-usage! Am thoroughly enjoying your blog :)

    ReplyDelete

When you write a comment, it makes me feel like I won the lottery or at the very least like I ate an ice-cream sundae. (This has nothing to do with the fact that I did just eat an ice-cream sundae.)