Bustin' Loose
2006-06-11, 4:01 p.m.

Day after tomorrow we�re leaving for SC. Next Saturday is my 20th high school reunion. These are shallow events, and I�m not that high and mighty. The only things I�ve developed successfully since graduating from college (magna cum laude, I have used it well) have been my children and my chest (I was flat as a board in high school), and I can�t haul my children along, so I bought an outfit to wear of which my mother surely will not approve.
Which means, of course, that it is perfect.
Gotta show off at least one accomplishment. Or to get all technical on the subject, would that be two?

I was playing around with hair and makeup and got Hubby to take a couple of photos to share. And in true Hubby fashion,

*ahem* He was very pleased with his mad photography skillz. But this is a family blog.

That�s better.

I got new shoes, too. I like them. They are surprisingly comfy.

The strange little dot? I have a freckle on my toe. You were dying to know that, weren�t you? I have 50 squillion freckles everywhere else. Rough estimate.

And no, I won�t be wearing jeans. I have brown linen pants, but I have to hem them. Meaning, I have to slice off two feet of fabric and desperately iron on some hem tape. Pretty sad when even the short length stuff is too long.

I wasn�t planning on buying new shoes, but I had to go to the mall anyway to buy new, er, delicates for Daughter, who slinked into the living room with her arms crossed and dropped the bombshell that nothing of hers fit anymore. Time to have a professional fitting at the department store�amidst VEHEMENT teenage protest. Every eye, every ear, every synapse of every human being in the known universe was tuned to her and the realization that she might, just might, wear�GASP�UNDERGARMENTS. And to add insult to injury, before the saleslady finished wrapping the measuring tape completely around her, she patted Daughter on the arm and clucked, �Oh Dear, you�ve got �em, don�t you?� and then told me just how large an over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder we needed to buy.

Large.

I had to enter the dressing room to help her tweak the straps and adjust the fit, and you would think Hell had opened up under her feet. She was not a happy child.

We got home and I broke the news to her father. He was not a happy daddy. He said some words that rhymed with �fire truck� and lamented that she is only thirteen and had another beer and researched the cost of buying another shotgun. I already have one of my own. And yes by God I�ll use it.

Then my mother called, and she was not at all pleased at being bested (or would that be �busted�?) by her own granddaughter. When I was a teenager and had a growth spurt, the taller I got, the higher Mama�s hairdo grew as well until it began to challenge the very laws of Aqua Net physics. When I stopped growing at her exact height, the towering nosebleed proportions of five-foot-two, thank God so did her hair. And now, we have War Of The Boobies. I don�t want to think about the implications. To make matters worse, a couple of years ago for Christmas the neighbors gave my mother a tip jar inscribed �Boob Job Money� that EVERYBODY tosses loose change into as a lark when they come over. She is 73 years old. She is a silver-haired grandmother. And she�s downright excited about that stupid jar.

She is my mother.

Lalalalalala, I can�t hear youuuuuuuuuuu.

But I did have The Talk with my mother.

No, not THAT one, you twit. Remember who is doing the typing here. I have issues.

When it comes to home d�cor, if I am on one end of the rapidly expanding Universe, my mother is on the other, showing me furniture I do not like and proclaiming �Well, you just don�t know what looks good.� And there are several pieces in her home that are nice, yes, pretty, yes, but are not me. They have also taunted me my entire life. The Do Not Touch Under Penalty Of Death pieces. The You Didn�t Bump Into That, Did You? pieces. The If I Inherit That I Am Going To Have The World�s Biggest Bonfire pieces. Only Mama is in a semi-cleanout mood, ready to foist some of that crap on to me NOW, with the edict that I can Never, Ever, Ever, Ever Get Rid Of It, and I know without a doubt that she would haunt me one day if I tried.

But it�s not easy to break the news that you don�t want something, when that something happens to be The Most Wonderful And Beautiful Thing That Has Ever, Or Will Ever, Exist On The Planet Earth.

And so, I give you,

Not the cute rumpled thing that was a good boy and got a visit from Santy. He�s a keeper. No. The prissy carved up Kindling From Hell in the background there, aka the hall tree.

God, I hate that thing.

I think it belonged to my grandparents. Fine. I never knew them. I have other mementos of theirs, smaller and far easier to store, like my grandmother�s china. Photographs. I will one day have the ledgers from my grandaddy�s country store. Those to me have meaning, not this hulking wobbly monstrosity that matches nothing in my home and has a mirror that goes wakka-wakka every time you walk by. I don�t think it would make it up here in one piece. So after much wailing and gnashing of teeth, I think I have her convinced to grace its wondrous presence upon One Of Two Favorite Nephews Upon The Utterance Of Whose Names The Heavens Part And Angels Sing. Which makes my life a whole lot easier.

She listed every bit of furniture in her house and was miffed that I am not clamoring for a single piece of it, and has written me off as the single most tasteless person in existence today. Fine. Works for me. I�m free, ya hear me, FREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.

Then we went into Round 2. The Madame Alexander dolls.

When I was a wee bairn, my aunt roped my parents into doll collecting, except they were too cheap to collect any dolls that were truly collectible. Therefore, Hubby and I now sport several closets full of non-collectible collectible dolls in order to clear out some closet space for Mama. After storing them for a couple of months, I figured it was now or never in breaking the news to her that the bits of plastic and fabric she and Daddy shelled out $12.75 apiece for in 1976 and knew would appreciate to just under the gross national budget of Bora Bora, in fact sell for $1.93 on eBay. Total.

Not even enough to buy her a padded bra.

She ain�t happy. I ain�t happy. Those stupid dolls TORMENTED me. I was a doll and Barbie-lovin� girl, and they were Barbies on speed. They were little dolly dolls in fancy outfits from other lands, storybooks, nursery rhymes, with wee little caps and scarves and petticoats and crinolines and velvet slippers and I wanted to play with them with every. Fiber. Of. My. Being. but they were locked away in the china cabinet, brought out every so often to be touched with one finger, oh they will be worth something one day, they drove me out of my ever-lovin� GOURD and today en masse they are worth just slightly less than my toothbrush.

Anybody wanna come play dollies with me?

last - next