"I wonder why my arms are so itchy?" he asked, assuming as he usually does that I am the storehouse of all such knowledge. "Maybe it's just the dry air."
"Could be," I said.
"And it almost feels like something is walking around on my head."
"Boy, that's really weird," I said.
Then, as I glanced over at his shirt--the purple and gray plaid flannel one--it dawned on me.
"It's probably because you're wearing the scarecrow's shirt," I told him.
"What? Oh, so now I'm only good enough for scarecrow hand-me-downs?" he said with complete disdain as he marched off to the bedroom to change his shirt.
"I washed and ironed it," I assured him. "I thought I had rid that shirt of all traces of scarecrow."
"Do I have any other items in my closet that have been previously worn by a scarecrow? he asked.
"No, that's it," I said. "But I was considering your nice blue blazer with a red-striped tie for next year's guy. Of course, I would have asked your permission first....
1 comment:
You didn't REALLY give the poor guy back the scarecrow shirt?! Sounds like something I might do....
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