Shmata
In high school I had a particular way of dressing that drove my mother crazy. My worst offense was the men's boxer shorts, since it appeared, to her, that I wasn't wearing any pants. "But I'm wearing two pairs," I argued. My mother failed to see the logic in that. My grandmother, on the other hand, didn't even see the boxer shorts, their very presence on her granddaughter's body beyond comprehension. She had other things to worry about.
Why are you wearing that shmata? You could be such a beautiful girl. Let me take you shopping.
But grandma, I just bought this shirt.
Just bought it? Impossible! Who could sell such a thing?
It's vintage, Grandma.
Vintage? You look like you just got off the boat.
In high school I had a particular way of dressing that drove my mother crazy. My worst offense was the men's boxer shorts, since it appeared, to her, that I wasn't wearing any pants. "But I'm wearing two pairs," I argued. My mother failed to see the logic in that. My grandmother, on the other hand, didn't even see the boxer shorts, their very presence on her granddaughter's body beyond comprehension. She had other things to worry about.
Why are you wearing that shmata? You could be such a beautiful girl. Let me take you shopping.
But grandma, I just bought this shirt.
Just bought it? Impossible! Who could sell such a thing?
It's vintage, Grandma.
Vintage? You look like you just got off the boat.
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