I love my husband of 47 years to pieces. But there are times when he drives me absolutely batty. Usually, those times are reserved for when he eats while driving my car.
He is a messy slob.
Everything he eats goes down the front of his shirt, between his legs, and on my car seat. And that’s what happened just the other day.
I am sure that many of you have heard of that remarkable product in the refrigerated section of the grocery store called Crustables, or the Non-Crustable knockoffs. These are peanut butter and jelly- filled sandwiches that have crimped edges and no bread crust. As you are well aware most children do not like the crusts on bread, so Smuckers invented these delightful little sandwiches that have no crusts.
They are absolutely delicious and perfect for those of us too lazy to make a sandwich.
The other day my husband and I had to go to Charleston, and since we didn’t have time to eat for a while, we decided to take a few Crustables with us and eat on the way. When we arrived in Charleston we decided to eat at a restaurant, so we pulled into the parking lot, got out of the car, and came together. As always, my husband grabbed my hand and held it as we crossed the busy parking lot and stepped up onto the sidewalk. When he let go of my hand to open the door for me, our hands stuck together. When I pulled it away, my hand was sticky.
Startled, I looked back at him and my jaw dropped. Down the front of his shirt was a giant stain. A giant purple stain.
“Honey,” I said, “What is on your shirt?”
He shrugged. “Jelly, from the sandwich.”
“How could you drop jelly from a sandwich with crimped edges?”
“I don’t know, it must have squirted out from somewhere,” he said.
“You are such a child! If you are going to eat in the car, I am going to have to buy you a bib!”
He rolled his eyes at me, then told me he was going to the bathroom to wash his shirt off. When he returned, he laughingly told me that the jelly had bled through his shirt onto his skin and his shirt was stuck to his chest.
“I had to actually reach under my shirt to wash my belly and the inside of my shirt to get all of that jelly off,” he said laughingly. I didn’t find it all that funny, but the worst was yet to come.
When we returned to the car, it was my turn to drive, so I climbed into the driver’s seat but first checked to be sure there was no jelly on the seat. Thankfully, it was clear. So with confidence I climbed in the car, grabbed the seat belt, and buckled it.
And that’s when I discovered my hand was stuck to the seat belt.
Looking down, I noticed that half the seat belt was smeared with grape jelly. And now my hand was sticky... again.
Mumbling remarks I don’t care to repeat here, I frustratedly reached down with one hand into my pocketbook to find something to clean up with. The only thing I could find was a feminine wet nap. You know, those prepackaged little packets that claim to create feminine freshness in the nether regions… also known as the Hoo-ha.
Frustrated, I scrubbed down the seat belt, fussing the whole time. Just when I thought everything was clean, I adjusted the fuzzy pad that protects my neck from the seat belt. As I did that, I got sticky again and found a purple stain on the gray pad.
For heaven’s sake! How much jelly could possibly be in one small sandwich?
I took out my last wet nap and scrubbed my gray fuzzy pad. And then, just to be safe, I scrubbed the entire steering wheel, gear shift, radio dial, and AC control.
It was time to teach the old boy a lesson. So I turned the car around and drove to Culver’s where I ordered an ice cream sundae. Then I drove the whole way back to Walterboro eating a dripping, stringy caramel ice cream sundae with one hand and a spoon and driving the car with the other.
I didn’t get one single drop on my car or clothes. I confess, I held it over his head and teased him unmercifully about the whole thing.
But the next day, we were driving somewhere else, and I had a small open bottle of orange juice in one hand, and a little crumb cake in the other. I thought I was being extra careful and congratulated myself on not spilling any crumbs in my lap or the car seat. But then I looked down as I went to get a drink of orange juice and saw that a quarter of my crumb cake had fallen into the open mouth of my orange juice. It looked disgusting. And what was worse, that night when I took off my bra out fell a handful of crumb cake.
I have come to the conclusion that we both need bibs and that is what we are giving each other for Christmas this year.
