Unicorn I’m not a hot mess I’m a spicy disaster vintage shirt
I grew up on the Unicorn I’m not a hot mess I’m a spicy disaster vintage shirt Upper West Side, a maideleh among those same bubbes, dreading every Jewish obligation my family dragged me to; we were hardly observant, but even the occasional Passover seder or day in shul was enough to strike fear in my tween heart. (I vividly remember my mother forcing me into a dark-green velvet, floor-length dress that most closely resembled a carpet, only to show up at a friend's bar mitzvah and see that every other twelve-year-old girl there was dressed like a mini-Paris Hilton.) On a sunny recent Saturday, I found myself quietly weeping in the smoked-fish line at Zabar's on 80th Street and Broadway. Yes, it felt like a deleted scene from a Nicole Holofcener movie, and no, I don't think anybody noticed—sunglasses and face masks are great for public crying—but I couldn't help it; it was the second day of Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, and stalwart Upper West Side bubbes were all around me, rapping on the counter with plastic-gloved hands and inquiring after the fish cutter's new baby before haranguing him over an overly-thin cut of lox.
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