I think it's been well established that my husband is a die-hard-through-and-through-bleed-orange-Power T-tatto-sporting Tennessee Volunteer fan. Tonight's game was a big one against a big rival: Alabama.
While it started out promising, it ended badly. There were several iffy if not just downright bad officiating calls. In the fourth quarter I looked up to see Jason, shirtless, with red writing across his chest, "I hate SEC officials."
"Oh my word, what have you done?"
"Well, I do!"
"What exactly did you use to write that? A Sharpie?"
"Well, how about somehow getting that off before you go climb under our very nice, somewhat expensive, wedding gift sheets tonight?"
A few minutes later he left the living room. Engrossed in some internet reading, I looked into the kitchen to see him standing in front of the sink.
"Watcha doing?" I called.
"Getting this stuff off, like you asked," he replied.
Aw, how sweet. Wait....
I recently purchased a package of Mr. Clean Magic Erasers to try on our flat-top stove. Surely he wouldn't...
Jason walked back into the living room, bearing a proud grin and a bare chest.
"Um, honey? You didn't use that Magic Eraser to get the Sharpie off, did you?"
"Yeah! It worked!"
Oh no. I recalled a recent post of an old college friend, Drew Hill, in which he described his own painful experience with a Magic Eraser when he used it to scrub black hair dye off his scalp. Basically, he ended up with an inexpensive chemical peel.
And sure enough, about fifteen seconds after that proud grin walked into the living room it was replaced with a wince.
I'm not looking forward to the whimpering I may have to endure tonight. Although, to be fair, he was just trying to fulfill my request and make me happy. Sweet man...