Okay, so most of you have figured I’m a T-shirt whore.
I will buy almost any T-shirt, especially if it supports a cause, and double especially if they have one in one larger than my size, which is a B for Behemoth.
Anyway, this shirt SEEMED perfect.
Gray, cotton/poly, lightweight, it said, “Families Belong Together” on the front and most of the proceeds went to a legal group trying to keep the CHILDREN OUT OF CAGES, because that’s where the draconian petty bloated Russian traitor tyrant-in-chief thinks they belong. (I want to see him in a cage. I want to see him in the Hague. I want to poke him with a stick. I want to mock his tiny … you get the picture.)
Anyway, this looked like a good buy, so I tried it on, then threw it in my gym bag for after aqua class. (Yay! We have oxygen in the air again– we can BREATHE so aqua is a go!)
After aqua I was going to meet Chicken, Squish, and ZoomBoy for lunch since she took them to the book store like the amazing big sister she is, and as I got into the car, my new T-shirt was binding my armpit a little so I tugged on it.
RRRIP… the sleeve ripped all the way to the armpit–and I was probably already late. I got into the car and started it (air conditioning!) and tugged on the other sleeve, and RRRRIP! Also to the armpit, and I thought, “Uh oh…”
And then pulled into traffic.
At the next stoplight I tried to rip the entire sleeve off. I’ve got a couple of shirts like this. I ripped the sleeves off and ripped the neck off and they’re some of my favorite summer knocking around shirts. Well, the sleeve ripped, but not along the seam, and as I was driving to the next stoplight, I came to a part where it was really crooked.
So I got out my yarn scissors (handily in my purse along with my emergency sock bag for traffic jams) and hacked through the two inches of fabric that were in the way, and voila! No sleeve.
And then I realized, “FUCK! I have to do that to the OTHER side at the NEXT stoplight.”
This side needed yarn scissors too, and yes, it looked like ass.
So I get to the next light–a really long one–and I’m like ” FUCK IT ALL!!!!!” and I cut the neck of the shirt down past the ribbing and proceed to rip/cut the thing off in such a way to make it look like the last person who wore it got head AND part of the torso bitten off by a huge dinosaur, and then got the shirt treated with super bleach because who WOULDN’T want to wear that T-shirt again, right?
So THAT’S what I was wearing when I got out of the car to go to Panda Express.
The kids looked at me in surprise. I usually do “dead mommy chic” but I rarely do just plain ol’ “dead mommy.”
“The sleeves ripped,” I said weakly. “It became a thing.”
Chicken’s eyes took in the neckline. “An only you thing, right?”
“Well,” I told her with dignity, “Families may be meant to stay together, but this shirt was designed to be ripped apart.”
“Sure, Mom. Sure.”
Well I thought it was asking for it.
