Recycling, reusing, second handing and my underwear (Notice I didn’t say PANTIES!)

30 Sep

DANGER!    DANGER!      DANGER!      ADDICTION TO FOLLOW!     I never bought a thing for myself until I retired. Then I bought  seven beautiful sweaters @ $3 each. I couldn’t stop. My family had an intervention for me which included the local priest, a fashion model, my mother’s psychiatrist, a Ukranian balalaika strummer, two Texans and a cross-dressing Republican. It didn’t work. I now live in one of those little church barns where people dump their used clothing (and other stuff that I can not mention here).

Those were my thoughts when I commented on Anna Fonté’s (The Girl in The Hat) recent post regarding recyling and thrift shopping.

Anna, of course, had a co-conspirator who aided and abetted her. She is Courtenay Bluebird and her commensalism is about a flea market.

Now, however, I am forced to explain these things that I commented about. The basis of my comments, are of course, true to the theme of the above two postings by the above two collusionists. (I wanted to use “schemers” but was afraid that they may live within driving distance of me.)

So where does one start when his family invites all those close friends to the intervention? Or maybe I should call it an interdiction because the first person to be invited was the local priest. However, his powers of interdiction were diminished by Canon Law;

1983 Code of Canon Law

An interdict today has the effect of forbidding the person concerned to celebrate or receive any of the sacraments, including the Eucharist, or to celebrate the sacramentals. One who is under interdict is also forbidden to take any ministerial part (e.g., as a reader if a layperson or as a deacon or priest if a clergyman) in the celebration of the Eucharist or of any other ceremony of public worship.

Now we all know that an intervention takes energy and, at times, quick movements. The priest’s dress (smock, mu-mu, cassock, hassock, whatever) was rather long. My brother insisted that he remove it before the intervention. I don’t know if that was necessary or if it was payback for something that had happened when my brother was an alter boy.

Well – – anyway – – there they all were. The priest in his shorts, my mothers psychiatrist finally abandoning the tryst, the Ukranian balalaika player in beautifully embroidered red, white and black period dress (what the hell does “period dress” really mean?), two Texans with oil on their boots, money on their minds and not much else excercising the gray matter, and lastly the cross-dressing Republican who was doing his best to get the priest’s cassock over his own low cut tank top and his pink short-shorts. By the way, and not to be too catty, his shorts clashed horribly with his lipstick.

Oh yes, I almost forgot about the fashion model. She didn’t really get involved; just stood around looking pretty. Every once in a while whe  would do that horsey strut where she would put one foot in front of the other. I don’t know why models do that. Looks like they might be haveing some sort of a gyno problem or other.

But now that I have mentioned that the priest was in his shorts it reminds me of how I got to the main point of THRIFT PURCHASING.

In the title of this literate posting I mentioned my underwear. Here, in abreiveated form as best as I am able, I will tell you why those boxer shorts are important.

We were visiting my grandfather in Moosic, Pennsylvania when there was news of a train wreck nearby. One of the rail cars was carrying sacks of seed. A nearby grain dealer bought the sacks right on the site. He put  the seed in his grain bins and was selling the sacks for cloth (holy-Jibony; I just discovered where the term “sack-cloth” came from).

Well, by this time you guessed where my underwear came from. They were quite wonderous when you consider the patterns of a steeple-chase in progress right across my rear (and other places). They were quite colorful; red, brown, blue and some green all on a brown background.

Neither my mother nor I had thought about the first time I had to go to gym class and shower afterwards. I can’t go into detail on this – – – too painful.

There was a lapse of THRIFT BUYING for the first 50 years of my marriage. My wife bought all of my clothes for her own pride and sanity.

Then I retired, bought those seven beautiful sweaters for $3 each and now you know the rest of the story.


The priest suddenly disappeared from the parish; although no one knows why.

The fashion model cut all her hair off and entered a Dr. Phil look-alike contest.

The psychiatrist talks to himself and takes notes.

The balalaika musician is strumming the theme from “The Love Story” while admiring Vladimere Putin’s glossy topless photo.

The two Texans read the sonnett “A Whole Lot of Frackin’ Goin’On” in Pennsylvania and bought into the gas play.

The cross dressing Republican liked the idea of a cassock so much that he joined a convent.

Well, that is my story on Thrift Purchases and what-not.

What happened to me?  Oh, I got kicked out of the church clothing drop-off barn.

I am now the manager of a Good Will store in Arcadia, Florida in the winter.

In the summer I can be seen (if you have the stomach for it) in a nudist camp.




8 Responses to “Recycling, reusing, second handing and my underwear (Notice I didn’t say PANTIES!)”

  1. anna October 1, 2012 at 12:21 am #

    Well done, Wally! I thoroughly enjoyed this. And now I’m left wondering which, if any, parts of your tale are true. It’s best to leave them guessing, I suppose.

    • Waldo "Wally" Tomosky October 1, 2012 at 12:35 pm #

      I believe that the reader should always add to the story. That way each person may read whatever they want into it. Also, if the reader continues thinking about the story after they are done reading it doesn’t that leave a stronger imprint on the grey matter? Just thinking. Maybe. Oh – – – probably not – – – hell, forget everything I just said (have not yet had my first drink of the day so everything is quite suspect). Be good and thanks for the cudos (I have no idea what that stands for. Is it an acronumb?)

  2. Courtenay Bluebird October 1, 2012 at 8:16 pm #

    I have the same question. Are there any true parts of the story? Please tell me more about the Ukrainian balalaika players. (Loved this piece— and thank you so much for including us both!) : )

    • Waldo "Wally" Tomosky October 1, 2012 at 9:53 pm #

      The only truely really honestly part of the story that is true is that I indeed have five pairs of shorts made from seed sacks with a steeple chase imprinted on them. CUTE! Now do you understand why I am so twisted? (But I still wear them on heavy dates!)

  3. Waldo "Wally" Tomosky October 1, 2012 at 9:57 pm #

    And there you have it. I really did have boxer underwear made from old seed sacks remaining from a train wreck in Pennsylvania. Other than that the remainder of the story is just a fig-newton of my imagination (but it is – – – oh so real to me – – – of course except for the “voices” which I was not sure you wanted to hear about).

  4. Blogdramedy January 4, 2016 at 9:42 pm #

    From the promo work you did on my site, this story was cleaner than I thought it would be. *wipes sweat from brow*

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