Brand

"You know, Samantha," Marissa said, wiping down Sam's counter with a disinfectant wipe. "Your kitchen would look a lot cleaner if it was so cluttered with all this…sugary, processed junk food."

"Yeah, probably," Sam said, not looking up from her magazine.

"And these windows…" Marissa continued, now inspecting the large window above the kitchen sink. "Well, not to toot my own horn, but mine are so spotless you can't even tell if they're open or closed. They're closed, of course, can't have nasty bacteria and germs flying in, but I think you get the idea."

"Uh-huh," Sam nodded, tuning her mother-in-law out. Over the years she found it easier to just let the woman do her random inspections of her and Freddie's house. It did mean Sam didn't have to clean the house herself, and she wasn't one to let free labor go, even if she did have to sit through Marissa's running commentary.

After commenting on the non-symmetric arrangement of the houseplants, Marissa disappeared upstairs to the bedrooms, finally giving Sam some piece and quiet. Unfortunately, the silence was short lived as she returned less than five minutes later and sat down on the couch next to Sam.

"What?" Sam asked, putting down her magazine.

"Nothing, nothing," Marissa said.

Sam saw she had something balled up in her hand. "Okay," she shrugged, picking up her magazine again.

"It's just," Marissa began, and Sam groaned and closed her magazine.

"Go on," Sam said, rolling her eyes. "Tell me how unsanitary the bathroom is, or how un-alphabetized the hall closet is or whatever."

"Now while that's all very true, Samantha," Marissa nodded. "That's not my concern right now. Right now, I'm more worried about this."

She opened her hand to reveal and pair of Freddie's boxer shorts.

"Um, why are you going through your son's underwear drawer?" Sam asked.

"I needed to see if they were organized by color!"

"Alright, alright, I'll tell Freddie to start doing that," Sam said, shaking her head.

"It's not that," Marissa said. "It's just that it seems you're not buying my Freddiebear the correct brand of underpants."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"This is the cheap, non-certified brand," Marissa explained.

"Who certifies underwear?"

"There's a special branch of the American Hygiene Department! This brand has probably given my poor baby a terrible rash all over his-"

"Okay!" Sam said loudly, cutting her off. "First of all, I can assure you that Freddie is completely rash free-"

"I doubt it," she muttered.

"And second of all," Sam said, ignoring her comment. "I don't buy Freddie's underwear. He does it himself. Talk to him when he gets home about it, if you must."

Marissa's eyes grew wide in shock. "You make your husband by his own underpants?"

"Yeah," Sam said. "Believe it or not, most adult men do."

"They most certainly do not!" Marissa sputtered indignantly. "And I'll have you know I bought Freddie every single pair of his underpants until the day he moved out and started living with…you!"

"Then buy them for him now, I don't care," Sam told her, hardly believing the conversation she was having.

"That's not the way it goes, Samantha," Marissa said firmly. "As much as I try to deny it, you are my Freddikins…wife, and as his wife it is your job to make sure he wears the proper brand of undergarments! These are the responsibilities I trusted to you when I gave you two my blessing."

"You never gave us your blessing," Sam pointed out. "On our wedding day you ran up to the alter refused to let Freddie go for half-an-hour!"

"I'll take you to the store," she said, ignoring Sam's last comment. "And show you the exact brand that you'll need to buy. I can't believe Freddie hasn't said anything to me about this catastrophe. He's such a sweet boy; he probably didn't want to worry his mother."

"You can't be serious," Sam muttered.

"Come on," Marissa said, grabbing Sam's wrist and pulling her to her feet. "We'd better get going. It's an hour drive to the special store that sells the brand we'll need."

Four hours later, Freddie sat on his couch, eating a bowl of chips and watching the latest episode of How I met your Sister. He heard the front door open and his wife walked in carrying a plastic shopping bag.

"You've been out with Carly?" Freddie asked.

"No," Sam snapped. "I just spent the last four hours with your mother!"

"Why?"

"Because I felt like it," Sam said, rolling her eyes. "She forced me to, you nub! Here." She threw the bag at Freddie and it hit him hard in the chest.

"Underwear?" he frowned, opening the bag. "Um, thanks? I didn't really need any, though. I bought some just last week."

"Yeah, but apparently if gives you rashes," Sam said, collapsing into the seat next to him.

"No it doesn't," Freddie said, confused.

"Try telling that to your psycho mother," Sam said darkly.