BEAUTY SHOP TALK

by

Vicki Charmaine Bunch

It's that time again. Time to show that special someone how much you really care. Her closet is bulging with houseshoes and moo-moos and sequined jogging suits. Ceramic frogs and things with pigs are falling off the shelves. And she's so fat from all that Valentine candy, she fell through the hammock and squashed the cat. What do you give the mom who has everything?

You could send her card but anybody who just sends their mother a card for Mother's Day is a dirty cheapskate. How would you feel if, when you lost a tooth, there was just some stupid card when you woke up instead of a twenty dollar bill? How would you feel if you skinned your knee and all she gave you was a stupid card instead of a super new Barbie doll or a neat-o catcher's mitt? How would you feel if, on your sixteenth birthday, she gave you a crummy card instead of a shiny new Trans-Am?

Mom busted her ass for you and now it's payback time. Making your flour maps. Paying your bail. Lying to your teachers when you were home with a bad hangover. How can you ever repay such devotion? Every night I toss and turn worrying about it. A new two-piece? A dozen thongs? Zebra print capri pants? Oh, wait--those are the things I want for Mother's Day.

My mom's idea of a good time is bingo five times a week and all the Kool Aid she can drink. I ought to give her something healthy, like a membership at the health club or a hula hoop. She claims to watch Jack LaLane every single day after her morning trip to Krispy Kreme but I know she's lying.

Mom would settle for a carton of Lucky Strikes but only if it was from my brother. She hates my presents. She doesn't wear Spandex and she used the Mt. Carmel t-shirt I gave her several years ago to wax the car. The platform shoes made her fall and break her hip and she never even bothered to redeem the gift certificate for the free tattoo.

Of course, she loves my brother's presents, no matter what they are. The boa constrictor, the hubcap, the poster of Evil Kneival--each one made her weep for joy. She doesn't even care that last week my brother had to get his demons cast out when he was in the county jail.

Of course, she flips her lid when I get a parking ticket. Maybe it's because she has never forgiven me for stabbing my brother with a pick-up stick when he was three. She worries about it to this day and says things like, "Your brother could have been an opera singer if you hadn't damaged his vocal chords." Even though the doctor says I missed them by a good half-inch.

Same thing with my sister--who always makes Mom's gifts, starting with the plastic poodle she created out of dry cleaners bags at Vacation Bible School. Since then it's been crocheted tissue box covers, painted tennis shoes, and a portrait of a sad clown. Mom took them to bingo and proudly showed them off. .

She hates the hamster I made out of one of Bucky's fur balls.

Why fight it? I'll buy the thong panties and if she doesn't like them, she can give them to me.