Last week we took granddog Ivy back to Georgia to be with her family after our dog-sitting stint. Since she was Dearly Beloved’s walking partner on his long daily jaunts, it is an understatement to say that he misses her. The lonely Maytag repairman is a party animal by comparison.
My grandsons fancy me a “sew-er” and line up any mending when they know I’m coming. This time, a large stuffed animal, its leg dangling, needed surgery. Its owner, Little Elmo, was delighted at the outcome. Being a hero to a five-year-old is a wonderful, smoochy delight.
My sewing skills are pretty much confined to mending because of lack of talent. It’s the buttonholes that foil me. When I used to make dresses for myself, I’d sew in snaps and put buttons over them so that I wouldn’t have to deal with buttonholes. I don’t trust that method any more. Either snaps aren’t what they used to be or more of me is expandable. One good sneeze out in public could get me arrested.
Dearly Beloved has a pair of jeans he finds especially comfortable and he has put my mending skills to the test. One knee split long ago and I mended it. Sometime later, he asked me to do it again. This time, he asked would I use a patch.
The jeans belong in the garbage. In the past, with his other “favorite jeans,” I’ve sewn patches inside the knee and then stitched the outside together so that it wouldn’t show. Not this time.
Wiser these days, I have come to realize that what constitutes a “favorite pair” is any that Mr. Non-shopper does not have to go out and buy for himself. The ones he has are some the kids have given him over the years. The current favs have strings hanging from the bottom and threadbare sections in potentially embarrassing spots, though I doubt he’d be arrested.
I rifled through my scraps and came up with a riotous fabric from some project, as well as some dark denim patches that had a ten-cent price tag on them and are surely older than me. With these props, I “fixed” the jeans, believing that my efforts would speed along the decent burial they deserve.
The rear has more of the denim patches dotting the seat.
Side note: Whenever he used to receive an oddball article of clothing as a gift (usually from his mother who couldn’t keep her sons’ sizes or preferences straight) he would tell the children that “this will be something good to wear by the fire.”
I thought that at best, these would be relegated to fireside status.
Last weekend when we were getting ready to go to Georgia, he put on the jeans, but I thought it was while he was packing the car and that he planned to change for the drive.
Oh, no. He wanted to “show these babies off to the boys” when he met them at the bus stop that afternoon. That meant he also wore them inside when we stopped for lunch someplace in South Carolina.
Yesterday he had his car inspected. I didn’t see him when he left, but he returned– wearing them.
He wears them on walks, admitting that he does get some odd looks and funny smiles. He says they’re thinking, “Now there’s a guy who’s comfortable in his own skin.”
I doubt that.
He completes his look with a Rastafarian belt which doesn’t match the patches, but does go well with the Bob Marley music on his iPod. Mainly, it holds up his pants since his waist has shrunk from all that walking.
He has the jeans on again today. This time he has matched the patch by wearing a red, white, and blue plaid shirt.
To mix my metaphors, I have decided that if you can’t beat ’em, fight fire with fire. I have just the equipment. . . my red sweatpants, which he detests. I found them at the back of a closet shelf. I’m not sure how long I’ll have to wear them before he retires those ratty-looking jeans.
I’ve heard so much bull on the televised campaign trail that I do have a lingering concern about these red sweatpants.
Just to be on the safe side, I won’t go near any cow pastures.