It ain't a base town

We haven't lived on/near a major regular military installation in years. However, the Florida location was next to an air base that, although it lacked hordes of young wardogs tearing up the bars, still supported lots of military people. And there was a sizeable military presence near our workplace in Minnesota.

So it never even crossed my mind when I took Mr. Abby's blue deltas (short sleeve khaki shirt with green stripes, worn with the blue pants with the red stripe - a combination so awful that only the Marine Corps could have dreamed it up) to the cleaner.

"Can you do these and have them ready tomorrow?" I asked.

"Sure! Do you want starch in the shirt?" replied the cheerful gal behind the counter.

"Nah, let's let him go without this time."

And I took my ticket and left. Little did I know I really should have specified that I wanted the uniform cleaned and pressed. Like, the creases really were supposed to be there.

They cleaned the pants and shirt, and pressed the creases out of the shirt. If you've seen the male Marine uniform shirts, you're fully aware of the ironing job the Mister has ahead of him tonight. It makes me glad I asked for no starch, or he'd have a creaseless shirt that was stiff as a board.

Note to self - do not assume anything about the dry cleaner.