Mom Story #1

My Mom and Dad went on a cruise, while I was living in New York. My Aunt Betty, Dad's sister, and her husband, Stan, were having an anniversary, or something, and they had all of their children, and spouses, and grandchildren, and my parents, join them as guest stars in their own personal Love Boat. By all accounts, a great time was had by all. I wouldn't know. I wasn't invited.

Bitter? Don't be silly. I laugh in the face of bitterness, and chuckle condescendingly at sadness.

Anyway, about a week after my parents got done seeing what Gopher is really like, I got a box in the mail. My mother, sweetheart that she is, had picked up a shirt for me during her travels. It was a nice shirt, too. Light brown, with a loose weave to the fabric that made it great for summer, which was raging humidly about the city at the time.

There was one small problem, however. This shirt, so nice in other ways, had a pocket on the left breast, on which had been inflicted the words 'KEY WEST', in oh-so-bright sparkles. This is what happens when your mother chooses clothes for you based on what she would want to wear.

I looked at the shirt, pondering. I really did like it, other than the eyesore of a pocket. Inspecting the shirt, I found that the weave was loose enough that I could get to the thread used to attach the pocket without damaging the rest of the shirt.

So I cut the thing off.

I spent about a half an hour, carefully finding each point of attachment, making sure I was cutting the right threads, slowly excising the overly happy pocket from the quiet goodness of it's home garment. When I was done, it was apparent, upon semi-close inspection, that there had been a pocket attached, but it wasn't too obvious, and looked like it would fade as the loose weave was exposed to washing. Even if it didn't, it was a small defect, and I could explain it away simply by saying to any who asked, "Hey, it's an imperfect world. Sometimes, pockets come off. Whatcha gonna do, eh?"

Felling quite happy with my new, slightly altered gift, I wore it to work that very day. Upon arriving home again, I made a quick call to my parents, making sure to thank them for the shirt, and expressing my happiness with it, telling my mother I was wearing it at that very moment. It was all skittles and beer, until I mentioned that I'd had to remove the pocket to make the shirt wearable. Then I asked Mom why she had bought something with such a gaudy embellishment. There was a brief silence on the other end of the line.

"Um, none of the shirts had any writing on them." She said in a quiet, hurt voice. "I had them put that on. It cost extra."

Oh, Christ... Life ain't fair...