Lesson #3: Always define your terms, or you might end up insinuating your girlfriend dresses like a slutty referee in her spare time.

When I was in grade 12, I had the misguided notion that I needed an extracurricular activity and I chose debating. I chose debating because 1) my english teacher loved me and loved debating and wanted these things to go together and I enjoy being adored, and 2) my friend (the one I showered with bits of shark skeleton) and I had once gone to a debate where the winner was a particularly attractive fast talking young man and we both agreed that we were more likely to get laid if we were exactly like him. This led to the most horrible debating experience I've ever had, where it was our job to define the term 'violence' and we managed to form a loophole where rape and spousal abuse were not included in the term 'violence' and ended up having to debate in favour of sexual assault.


The bitch who beat us was from Balmoral Hall, and about 2 weeks later (after I had quit debate club) I ran into her in a McDonalds while wearing cat ears made of sparkly blue faux fur I had bought at a dollar store, and for some reason this did not make me appear any more competent in her eyes.

That experience has taught me that one must always define one's terms. But apparently no one ever told my boyfriend this, which led to the following conversation.

C: You left your black-and-white striped shirt at my place. I will return it to you.

I thought this was rather unlikely, I am quite sure I always leave his house with my shirt still on.
Me: A black-and-white striped shirt.

Nope, definitely don't have one of those. Can you describe it?
C: It's either a black shirt with white stripes or a white shirt with black stripes.

Me: maybe I've misunderstood. Think, Amy, think. It's a shirt with stripes. Do you have anything that could be misconstrued as a shirt with stripes?

Nope, none of those are mine. Are you sure it's mine?
C: Yes, because it's too small to be mine.
Me: Hm...a small black-and-white striped shirt.

Nope, definitely not mine. Maybe it belongs to your ex girlfriend.
C: Ex girlfriend? What ex-girlfriend? I only have eyes for you.

I knew that C was about to bring me his ex-girlfriend's shirt, and while I was new to the dating world, I was pretty sure this was a fairly big faux pas. I was excited. I was about to get a free shirt and an opportunity to chastise C for his bad behaviour. I hoped his ex was fashionable, with a 27" waist and 42" hips. We could be friends.

And then, C introduced a vital piece of information that made my hopes and dreams of wearing another woman's adorable black-and-white striped shirt dissolve into a puddle of understanding. He said the word 'sweater'. I realized that he was not talking about a black-and-white striped shirt. He was talking about the black sweater with white trim I had been missing for a week.

To put it in other words, a black-and-white striped horse:

is not the same as a black horse with white 'trim':

and a black and white striped car:

is not the same as a black car with white trim:
.
Feeling cheated out of my opportunity for a new shirt and the opportunity to play the part of the underappreciated, wounded girlfriend, I corrected C of his error in the hopes that I would never have to see the possibility of a new shirt disappear before my very eyes like that again, and went to bed