Downy Déjà vu

As long as I am married to Robbie, which will be until I’m senile or dead, I will never run out of things to write about. Here is a conversation we had this evening:

Me: “We’re out of laundry detergent, so I can’t wash any more clothes until I go to the store.”

Robbie: “Just use that stuff in the blue bottle.”

Me: “What stuff? You mean fabric softener?”

Robbie: “Yeah, that stuff. It’s all the same.”

Me: “WHAT DO YOU MEAN, IT’S ALL THE SAME?!”

Robbie: “It all basically does the same thing. It gets them clean.”

Me: “No … no.”

Robbie: “Yes it does, I washed a few loads awhile back with that stuff.” (He’s referring to the other weekend when I went to the beach.) 

Me: (silence)

Robbie: “It got them clean.”

Me: “That explains the weird blue stains on our clothes.”

Robbie: “Oh.”

What’s even MORE amazing is that this exact thing happened when I was 12 years old, and my dad took over laundry duties because my mom returned to the workforce.

Weeks, WEEKS, I TELL YOU, went by with the three of us — me, my mom, and my dad — wondering where all of these grey-blue spots were coming from.

Downy

Whoever said that most women end up marrying a man who is just like their father was so, so right.

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