Blanket coverage

Sunday nights are the NBA jerseys night we take out the trash in our neighborhood.
But last night, in addition to the usual collection of Kraft Dinner boxes, popsicle sticks and dirty diapers, we had something else in the garbage: My favourite childhood NHL blanket.
It was an official NHL sheet from the early 1980s. It had only 21 teams on the blanket and could fit easily over a twin bed.
It featured classic teams like the Hartford Whalers and Colorado Rockies.
It was the blanket that comforted me when my dad told me that the Expos traded Gary Carter. It kept me safe when I was pretty sure that Gremlins were going to bust into my room after midnight. And it was the structural backbone of most of the forts I made in my room.

But now it was lying in the trash. And there was only one suspect in this horrific crime: My hockey-hating, childhood-memento-trashing wife.

So I attempted to approach my wife in a non-confrontational manner. Of course, I had to go through my mental checklist before proceeding.

Is she pregnant?

Is it "that time of the month?"

Have I done anything really obnoxious in the past 48 hours?

If the answer to all three questions is "No," then I have the green light to proceed. (Well technically, it's always a yellow light).

Gritting my teeth and trying to sound as pleasant as possible, I asked her, "Why did you throw away my favourite childhood blanket?"

"Oh, I didn't think you'd want it with all the paint on it," she said nonchalantly.

"Ummm…why was there paint all over the blanket?" I asked while trying to cover the bulging vein of anger on my forehead.

"Because my dad used it as a dropsheet when he painted our garage," she replied in a matter-of-fact fashion.

My wife can sometimes show off her resourceful German heritage at the oddest moments. You see, German people think you can use everything over and over again. Her mother would probably collect all of the cotton balls you get in the top of an aspirin bottle and make a pillow out of them for the guest room.

Absolutely.

I'm pretty sure that is grounds for divorce in six provinces and one territory. Can you imagine if the roles were reversed and I damaged one of her precious childhood keepsakes?

"I'm sorry honey. I was just doing some work under the hood of the car and I used your Cabbage Patch Doll as an oil rag. Hope you don't mind. I think I can still salvage the birth certificate."

I would be in the doghouse for years.

So realizing that she had hurt my fragile ego and destroyed a part of my childhood, my wife tried to mend the fence.

"I can try and take it out of the garbage and wash the paint off," she cheerfully offered.

But it was too late. The damage was done. You weren't getting an oil-based paint stain off from Mike Palmateer. And that Hartford Whalers logo was now damaged beyond recognition.

I thought about taking one of her Strawberry Shortcake dolls hostage, or maybe taking a baseball bat to her Easy-Bake Oven. But that would only be temporary enjoyment for me. And nothing was bringing that blanket back.

So, let this blog serve as a reminder to all men out there: Don't let your girlfriends, wives or mothers steal your childhood away.