At the time, we lived in a 1907 American Foursquare house in an urban neighborhood. Pre-children, Mr. Country Belle and I often spent our Saturdays cleaning house and working in our postage stamp-sized yard.
On one such Saturday morning, we were preparing to go outside and plant a few flowers when the doorbell rang. Seeing it was two elderly men dressed in suits, we opened the door to find out what they needed. They attended the neighborhood Baptist church and were bringing information to us and inviting us to visit one Sunday morning.
As they stood there making small talk, one of the men remarked to my husband about his shirt.
"What does it say?" he asked.
Mr. Country Belle, really not remembering which work shirt he had put on, stood there as the gentleman leaned in to read the print on the front of the shirt. He read it slowly and carefully.
If I tell you I wanted to suddenly bolt like nobody's business, I would be under-representing my level of mortification that day.
"It, it, it's just a work shirt," I stammered. "That's why he just wears it around the house to work in."
I should have told them they needed to save my husband's soul and get on with the housekeeping.
I'd love to hear your embarrassing story in the Comments section. Let everyone enjoy it!
Love,
TCB
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