Friday is my favorite day of the week for several reasons, but the biggest is that it’s the day that I get to stay up late after everyone goes to bed and catch up on my shows. I clean the floors, iron the clothes, and watch the TV that I can never get to during the week in total silence. It’s bliss. Clearly I’m a mom. As lame as it sounds, it’s a day that I really look forward to every week. I need that time to myself after a busy week of packing lunches, dropping off and picking up from school, homework, housework, story time, bath time, brushing teeth, and trying my best to stay sane.
Anyway, now that you know how I spend my Friday nights I’ll tell you about last Friday night. Or as I like to refer to it, the night of wild accusations.
I had just finished up washing all the laundry. Gilmore girls was playing in the background as I tackled the final stage of laundry: ironing. I hate ironing, but I refuse to pay someone else to do it so I guess I can’t complain. Anyway, as I was ironing my husband’s dress shirts the smell of cigarette smoke instantly hit me. We don’t smoke so I found it a bit odd. At first I thought that perhaps it was from his recent work trip to Tennessee. I know there are lots of social situations where he might be around smoke. But then the smell just kept coming. It didn’t stop with the shirts that he’d worn in Tennessee, but instead it was all of his shirts. By the time I was done ironing I was 100% convinced that within the last week my husband had become a closeted chain smoker. I even googled “closet smokers” to try and get some insight into the whole situation. You know, tips on how to lovingly stage an intervention and ask the right questions.
I don’t claim that I’m very lucid by the end of my wild Friday night cleaning sessions, and this night was no different. I finally decided that I couldn’t wait for morning to approach my secret-keeping husband about his new addiction and so at around 2 in the morning, I stormed into our bedroom where he was peacefully sleeping, woke him up and accused him of being a closeted chain smoker.
It went over about as well as you might imagine. After he was fully awake and listening to my ramblings about smokey clothes, a now-ruined iron and nicotine patches, he looked at me like I was absolutely nuts. I told him that he was going to have to buy me a new iron. Then he went on about how he’s never smoked in 40 years of being alive; He brought up his asthma; He tried to think if he’d been around smoke and concluded that no, not even in Tennessee had he been around smokers. Somehow this amused me and laughed myself to sleep. Wild night right there.
In the morning- as I was taking my allergy medication- I realized that I wasn’t smelling things properly due to a stuffed up nose. I quickly blew my nose and rushed over to his pressed shirts that were now hanging on chairs in the dining room and sniffed them. I smelled every single one and didn’t smell anything other than the usual lingering cologne and Febreeze scented Tide. I sniffed my iron and found no signs of lingering cigarette smoke, but I did, however, discover a small blackened hole in the iron itself and very bad burned iron smell. I felt a bit ridiculous, yet somehow relieved that my husband wasn’t hiding a bad habit from me, and frankly, quite grateful that the iron hadn’t exploded or caught fire in it’s attempted suicide. I had to order a new iron, obviously, but I still referred to him as my chain smoker all week long.