Weekend Clothes
July 2004
I'm a clothes horse when it comes to working in the yard. It's mandated by my HOA. They have sartorial resplendency rules. My interpretation is somewhat different than my neighbors.
My yard clothes are Home Depot Presentable - Super Grade. This presentation level grants me line-breaking privileges at Home Depot. Only a fella in the middle of a job that "needs to git done" can wear these clothes. I have these clothes. I am that man. Yes, you may touch me. Mmmmm. You're good... Oh, where wuz I? Oh, yes.
I'm proud of these clothes. I've taken WTF shirts and shorts and molecularly melded them into a unifying theme of WTF. It's an artform that many attempt, but few succeed. I'm still attempting. I've got the WTF part down pretty good now. Just listen... Wait. Wait. Just a little more. There. See, I told ya.
I'm partial to stained t-shirts from failed, long-forgotten internet companies. My shorts du jour are also my lucky Colorado River rafting shorts. These red, cheap-a$$, quick-drying buckaroos have been down the Colorado three times. The small, worn holes below my butt cheeks are a testament to the prehensile grip of well-toned gluts wanting to live through Lava Falls. Oh, these are special clothes for a special time.
As with any elegant ensemble, the accoutrements magnify and complete the theme. My dash of elan is a magnificent, paint-splattered, partially-rusted, Fisher-Price kindergarten chair. Its glory is my glory. How sweet life is when I peer down from its low post and hunt for chickweed.
When the weed harvest is complete and the tandem trucks are full and pulling away, I sit back in sweat-drenched underwear and admire my weed-free front yard. Ahh. Life can't get better.
Sometimes it does. A neighbor may stop by with her dog for a hour of fun. I'll rough house a bit, then rub an offered belly and scratch behind the ears. When that back leg gets going and an excited yip, yip, yip escapes from a drooling mouth, I know it's time to stop.
Her dog is nice, too.
I'm a clothes horse when it comes to working in the yard. It's mandated by my HOA. They have sartorial resplendency rules. My interpretation is somewhat different than my neighbors.
My yard clothes are Home Depot Presentable - Super Grade. This presentation level grants me line-breaking privileges at Home Depot. Only a fella in the middle of a job that "needs to git done" can wear these clothes. I have these clothes. I am that man. Yes, you may touch me. Mmmmm. You're good... Oh, where wuz I? Oh, yes.
I'm proud of these clothes. I've taken WTF shirts and shorts and molecularly melded them into a unifying theme of WTF. It's an artform that many attempt, but few succeed. I'm still attempting. I've got the WTF part down pretty good now. Just listen... Wait. Wait. Just a little more. There. See, I told ya.
I'm partial to stained t-shirts from failed, long-forgotten internet companies. My shorts du jour are also my lucky Colorado River rafting shorts. These red, cheap-a$$, quick-drying buckaroos have been down the Colorado three times. The small, worn holes below my butt cheeks are a testament to the prehensile grip of well-toned gluts wanting to live through Lava Falls. Oh, these are special clothes for a special time.
As with any elegant ensemble, the accoutrements magnify and complete the theme. My dash of elan is a magnificent, paint-splattered, partially-rusted, Fisher-Price kindergarten chair. Its glory is my glory. How sweet life is when I peer down from its low post and hunt for chickweed.
When the weed harvest is complete and the tandem trucks are full and pulling away, I sit back in sweat-drenched underwear and admire my weed-free front yard. Ahh. Life can't get better.
Sometimes it does. A neighbor may stop by with her dog for a hour of fun. I'll rough house a bit, then rub an offered belly and scratch behind the ears. When that back leg gets going and an excited yip, yip, yip escapes from a drooling mouth, I know it's time to stop.
Her dog is nice, too.
posted by Mike Chandler | 2:29 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home