J. G. Fabiano
"Peanuts" Pigpen Has Nothing on Me
By J. G. Fabiano
May 11, 2008 - 12:21:35 AM

"I am never going to buy you another piece of clothing again!"

Being startled into consciousness as I was enjoying a brand new quart of Ben & Jerry's super duper double chocolate ice cream I had no idea what I could have done to deserve that comment even though deep within my heart I knew I did.

"You are the biggest pig I've ever known."

Ok, since my mouth was stuffed with one of the most remarkable tastes on the face of the earth and I was just about to begin a frozen headache I could see why she would think I am a pig but how did she see me from the laundry room in the basement?

The conversation continued with my still invisible wife. "Everything you wear is stained after the first time you wear it. I am sick and tired of buying you new clothes knowing they will be ruined before their first wash. I am not doing it again!"

With the spoon still in my mouth I imagined myself nude in front of the refrigerator eating ice cream. Even worse I could see myself wearing clothes I had bought for myself because I have absolutely no sense of style this would not a pretty sight. Then I noticed the new tan shirt my wife just bought me had a little trickle of chocolate ice cream running down its front. I knew I was doomed.

I've had a problem with stains all of my life. My mother used to yell at me when I was a child because stains used to find me no matter where I tried to hide. I remember coming home from school and having my mother immediately rip my shirt off because of some kind of stain. I used to think she thought it was a kind of disease or bug that was trying to kill me.

Sometimes I never made it into the house. She would see me coming up the steps and rip my shirt and sometimes even my pants right off me. It was embarrassing to have my friends see me standing outside my house in my underwear. I used to worry what would happen if I ever stained those?

Now it is my wife's turn to suffer through the "pigpen" disorder that has been plaguing me most of my life. Everyone tells me I married my mother and now I'm beginning to understand why.

There are certain times when this disorder complicates my life. Going out to dinner with friends at an expensive restaurant is a time most of us look forward to. Because of my disorder this activity represents a time of stress for both my wife and me. It is stressful because I desperately try not to spill anything on my clothes. It is stressful to my wife because she knows I will do just that.

I always have a plan when we go out for dinner. First of all I try not to buy anything that is easily spilt. Soups, appetizers with sauce, and anything that sizzles I stay away from. Baked goods and foods that come gravy free is what I order during these times of stress. I don't know why I try because no matter what I order it is destined to end up on my lap or drooping down the middle of my shirt.

I once dropped a piece of bread while reaching for the butter. Trying not to have the bread land on the front of my pants I pushed my chair out from under the table and successfully had the bread miss my lap. I also successfully hit a waiter who was carrying a dessert that immediately landed on the back of my new soon to be discarded suede jacket. I was told I did not have to pay for the bread but the order of strawberry shortcake was added to my bill.

There have been times when I can't figure out how I stain my clothes. The other day after a snowstorm I cleared my driveway leading to the house. The storm had just ended and everything outside was covered with a thick white blanket of snow. After completing my task I walked into the house at which time my wife started to yell at me because the front of my new sweatshirt had a huge black stain on the front. It was in the shape of an inkblot that any psychologist would love to figure out what it represented. To this day I have no clue where it came from and never want to know what it meant.

If I ever wear a new pair of pajamas and lie on the couch without a doubt I will have something stained on the front. I swear to my wife I just lied there watching television. She just shakes her head in disbelief. There must be some sort of an invisible bird that flies over me every time I wear something new. The only thing that is not invisible is what it leaves behind.

If staining my clothes were my only problem I probably would have an easier life. But, I also have the tendency to stain everything around me. The other day I walked out into the garage to get the newspaper. I concentrated on the fact I should only use the doorknob to open the door because if my oil extruding fingers ever touched the door it would surely be covered by something only steel wool could remove.

When I got back into the house I was face to face with one very wild and angry woman. All I could do was raise my hands and say, "What??" She then pointed to the trim around the door. It looked like a crime scene in which an army of detectives dusted the trim leaving five or six clearly marked fingerprints. All I could do was to stare down at my hands wondering how they left my arms in the microsecond it took to go from the door to the garage door. Stephen King should write such a story.

Sometimes I wish I could wear some sort of Teflon suit that would make all of the stains that jump on me slide off. Maybe even a kind of bubble that does not allow any grease or grime to become attached to my clothes. I wonder if there is some sort of spray I could wear that would make the alien stains leave me alone.

For the past thirty years my only defense to this obvious genetic flaw has been explaining to my wife the day I am not stained or leaving stains would be the day I am no longer me. I just hope she is not waiting for the day.