When it comes to fights between my husband and me, they’re usually pretty normal; I mean, everyone’s fights end in torn shirts right?

My husband is known for wearing hole-y clothes (is it holey or hole-y?), likely because of his work in handyman services. It drives me insane, but mainly because he feels that his hole-y wardrobe is okay to actually wear out in public – to work, to dinner, everywhere. I’ve tried throwing away these clothes, but he digs them out of the trash and gets angry with me that I even attempted to throw away his “good” shirts. If I really want to get rid of anything, I have to smuggle it out of the house and throw it away elsewhere, then just hope that he doesn’t miss it.


One night our boys were spending the night with their grandmother, and the hubby and I thought it would be a great night to down a bottle of wine between the two of us. Now, I’d like to say that a bottle of wine between the two of us would usually do the trick, but that would be a lie. Hell, the kids are gone and we are getting our drink on! Anyways, during our drunken stupor he decided to change into one of his favorite hole-y shirts. This shirt is roughly 8 years old and filled completely across the upper back with small holes. When I saw the said shirt, all I wanted to do was rip it off and throw it away. So, I did what I had to do to get rid of it… I stuck my finger in one of the little holes as he gave me a hug and held on for dear life. As he walked away, the shirt tore. It tore across all of those little holes that had been haunting me all night, and left a sort-of smiley face across his chest (I don’t know how the holes across the back led to a big hole in the front, but it did).

VICTORY! Ha, ha, ha… that shirt is trash!

My husband’s name is Izzy. I know, everyone always says, “Isn’t that a girl’s name?” Yes and no. A girl named Isabella is called Izzy, but a guy named Isreal is also called Izzy… that’s my hunny.

So, Izzy didn’t exactly like that I tore his shirt – he stared at me in disbelief, without saying a word. I laughed so hard I almost fell off the counter I was sitting on, “Ha, that shirt is finally trash!” As I continued to laugh at the shirt hanging across his chest exposing his nipples in a big smiley face tear (I should have taken a picture, it was a huge smiley face with nipple eyes), he reached up to my perfectly-fine-fleece and ripped it from my chest, straight down the middle.

Me: “Izzy, what the hell? This fleece was perfectly fine, why did you rip it off?”

Izzy: “My shirt was fine too, but that didn’t stop you from ripping it!”

Me: “No, that shirt was filled with holes; it should have been thrown away years ago.”