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Charlie Hatton
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Howdy, friendly reading person!
I'm on a bit of a hiatus right now, but only to work on other projects -- one incredibly exciting example being the newly-released kids' science book series Things That Make You Go Yuck!
If you're a science and/or silliness fan, give it a gander! See you soon!

Just Call Me ‘Cresty LaRue’

There are days when I just shouldn’t be allowed to leave the house. Most days, in fact. Like, for instance, today.

So far as I knew, I had a perfectly normal morning. The alarm went off; I hot the snooze bar. Another alarm, another snooze. Alarm, snooze. Alarm, snooze. Alarm, wing the clock into the hallway, sleep for another hour. Same old, same old.

When I finally managed to peel myself off the mattress, I went through the usual routine — use the bathroom, undress, quick cry in the shower wondering where it all went wrong, dry off, get dressed, rock back and forth in the corner for a while, brush the old toofers, feed eggs and toast to the dog, scarf down a Milk Bone and OJ and head to the office. Just like every other morning.

Only, when I got to work, I noticed that I was getting some odd looks. Even odder than usual, and trust me — that’s odd. You don’t get where I am today without drawing a few curious stares, but this was more intense than usual. If I hadn’t just walked from my car in a gentle snow without freezing my butt cheeks off, I’d have thought that I’d forgotten to put on pants.

(Again. And man, that is one Administrative Professionals’ Day none of us will ever forget. Yow.)

“That would involve an awful lot of water. And leave me looking like the latest bubbly hopeful in a pasty fat guy wet rugby shirt contest.”

But with assflaps firmly attached and mostly thawed, I knew that couldn’t be it. So I went about my business, trying to ignore the giggles and stares and actually accomplish something at my job. That Freecell isn’t going to just play itself, you know.

Finally, around lunchtime, I slipped off to the bathroom for a quick self-check. Pants, as suspected, on. Zipper, in the upright and locked position. A quick facial scan in the mirror revealed nothing out of the ordinary. I was only as pitiable or horrifying to small children as usual; nary an eyelash or nose hair out of place. So what gives?

That’s when I saw my shirt in the reflection. And the two long white streaks streaming down my chest. Toothpaste, evidently due to a messy and overzealous brushing earlier in the morning. Long white streaks on a dark blue rugby, accidentally dropped and trailing from approximately the regions of my nipples.

So. I’d just rediscovered that I’m the careless slob I always knew I was. To my colleagues, coworkers and company superiors, I was lactating toothpaste.

Outstanding.

This left me with a dilemma. I could leave the toothpaste, which everyone had already seen, and weather the ridicule once someone finally drew the short straw and asked me what the hell was going on. I knew where that would lead. ‘Mr. Colgate Lactate’. ‘Mintynips’. And yes, ‘Cresty LaRue’. Not cool.

On the other hand, I could wash the toothpaste off. That would involve an awful lot of water. And leave me looking like the latest bubbly hopeful in a pasty fat guy wet rugby shirt contest. Assuming such a thing exists. Which, if there’s mercy or a god or any sense of propriety in the universe, it doesn’t. And if it does, I don’t want any part of it. ‘Charlie Gone Wild!‘ is a DVD whose time will never, ever come, frankly. Ever.

So what to do? I couldn’t leave the toothpase on the shirt, and I couldn’t wash the toothpaste off the shirt. Short of hiding out in the bathroom and waiting for the weekend to start, I was pretty well out of options.

Except for one. I took the shirt off.

Just went back to my office and worked the rest of the day topless. It wasn’t pretty, but it erased any questions about what was going on with my rugby. And I got to stay nice and dry, besides. And we had the most interesting staff meeting since… well, since last Administrative Professionals’ Day, come to think of it. Funny, that.

Still, I think I made the right choice. And nobody was talking about toothpaste for the rest of the day, that’s for sure. But that walk back to the car after work? Now that was cold. It’s three hours later, and my nipples could still drill twin holes through a double sheet of drywall.

My life would be so much simpler if I wore a bib in the mornings. Or pulled out all my teeth.

I think I’ll go with the bib.

Permalink  |  4 Comments



4 Responses to “Just Call Me ‘Cresty LaRue’”

  1. Mike says:

    The next time your dog farts and it smells like eggs, don’t blame him.

    Funny stuff here, Charlie.

  2. kerry says:

    sometimes after reading your blogs, i’m just frightened.

  3. Charlie says:

    Only sometimes, Kerry?

    After writing an entry, I’m always frightened.

    And usually hungry. Is that wrong?

  4. kerry says:

    some are more frightening than others.

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