It was just about three years ago now when Eddie got the call from a buddy that he had an extra pass to the Masters. Both of us were equally excited; L&M were only two months old and we weren't getting out of the house hardly at all, much less for a trip like that. Of course, I was a little nervous because that meant I would be home ALONE with the girls for most of the day and night (my chest tightens just thinking about that), but nonetheless, thrilled that Eddie would get to experience a time-tested ritual and right of passage for all good ol' boys raised below the Mason-Dixon line.
Before he left the house, I reminded him to please, please not forget to bring me a souvenir. I really wanted a pimento cheese sandwich and a mint julep, but knowing those wouldn't survive the trip, I was prepared to settle for a cute little pink cap with the tiny Masters logo on it. Heck, if I couldn't go with him, I at least wanted a token of the experience!
I watched the tournament on TV all day, in between feeding, pumping, cleaning, feeding, pumping, cleaning. I was jealous of the beautifully tanned and well-dressed people on the greens. And for a second, I started to feel sorry for myself. I hadn't showered all day, my greasy hair was matted to the top of my head and I was gently reminded that I hadn't really been out of the house since December when I was put on bedrest. And at that point, I'm sure a screaming baby shook me out of my ugly self pity moment.
Later that night, I heard the garage door open and Eddie run up the stairs. I was dying for some adult conversation and on pins and needles to see what kind of loot he brought home from Augusta. He had a giant clear plastic bag with him, and it was filled to the top with a sea of green. He was motoring through the details of the day - what he had for lunch (neither egg salad or pimento cheese...he's unAmerican in that way), who he ran into, and the golfers he followed, all the while unloading the plastic bag. There was a polo shirt for him, and another for my dad...a row of plastic Masters cups, a green Masters hat, a patch...and then, he said he left the best for last. He pulled out a green t-shirt (and I'm thinking, "They sell souvenir t-shirts at the Masters?"), opens it up and hands it to me.
At the time, I couldn't tell if it was my adrenaline rushing or my blood pressure rising - or maybe both - as I focused in on the prized t-shirt he brought me from the Masters. I was rendered speechless, waiting for him to pull out my REAL SOUVENIR because this was apparently a terribly bad joke, devised in a moment of absolute drunkenness. Oh...and the t-shirt was a size medium, nonetheless. Medium being my before-I-was-pregnant-gained-75 pounds-and-am-now-BREASTFEEDING YOUR TWIN DAUGHTERS t-shirt size. I couldn't use a size medium t-shirt for an %$*&# burp cloth, let alone a t-shirt.
The exchange of words that took place in our house that night sounded more like janxy phrases you'd see on bumper stickers:
"You went to the Masters, and ALL I GOT WAS A %$*& HOOTERS t-shirt??!!!"
"If you get any closer to me, I'm going to SCRATCH OUT YOUR EYEBALLS!"
In that moment, I was reminded again of how greasy my hair was...how crappy I felt about myself, still carrying around much of my pregnancy weight...not showered...not tanned...not highlighted...and my husband, honest to God, thought I would want a mother effing commemorative Masters Week Hooters t-shirt. I couldn't decide if I was more upset that he thought I'd EVER, under ANY circumstances, wear a Hooters t-shirt...or that he bought me one at a point in my life when the irony of a Hooters t-shirt on a woman nursing two babies was just too close to home. I could see a look of terror wash over his face, like he didn't know whether I was going to have a nervous breakdown or if he should fear for his life. And in a last ditch effort, he told me the sleeve of plastic throwaway Masters cups, probably picked up from any random fan who was finished with their drink, was mine, too. Oh, well in that case, Eddie, thanks so much.
Happy Masters Week!!
Holy Moly Jessi, I swear, reading your blog cracks me up. I can truly see the look of fear on Eddie's face and the look of true rage on yours as he pulled out the Hooter's T-shirt. What a great way to remember the Masters.
ReplyDelete-Leslie Dunn