Mothers and Daughters

Ahhh mothers and daughters…that age old dysfunctional relationship. Ever wonder why the children in those old 1950s ads always look like they are fleeing from their mothers and rushing to the arms of their doting fathers?

Who else could tell you on Christmas day that because you are still single at the age of 30, and not dating anyone specific, that “everyone” in your small home town thinks you are a lesbian? Who else could tell you, in that same breath, that you need to stop working out because you are developing a “man back”? And who else could tell you, after a LIVE on-air interview, only that “your lipstick looked good”…and you STILL are required to love them? Yeah…no one.

Don’t get me wrong I love my mother. She’s a great lady. No one does the holidays like my mom. Her child-like enthusiasm for presents, decorations, songs, and cookies is undeniable and rather endearing at times.

If you’re having a nervous breakdown because your puppy has had to go back into the doggie ICU for the 2nd time in 2 weeks and you just need your momma…mine is great. She drops everything, calls in sick, and comes to the rescue bringing coffee, probably some raisin bread, and a least a couple of People Magazines.

When you’re watching “Dancing With the Stars” and feel the need to comment on how Maksim makes you drool…call Debby…she’s ready and poised with her own snarky comments.

However, over the last several years I’ve noticed that my mother has gotten significantly more “open” with her comments. Her internal filter seems to be getting more and more porous as the years go on.

Take for example Exhibit A.

Last night I had a LIVE on air interview at a local television station. Luckily for me it wasn’t one of the larger better know stations in the area so I’m sure the only people who saw me were friends and family who knew about it. After agonizing all day over what to wear I finally broke down and reached out to my girl friends and my mother for a little advice.

My friends were all commenting on what colors to wear and skirt versus pants. My mother’s advice?

“You should go home at lunch and put on at least 3 sports bras and any other undergarment you have to squish everything down. Because cleavage is totally unprofessional and you want everything as flat as possible! Don’t wear red lipstick!”

After the interview I called my parents to see if they were able to get the station and see the broadcast. While my dad was going on and on about how great I looked and how knowledgeable and relaxed I seemed my mother’s only comment was…”Your lipstick looked good.”

She then asked how little the woman was who interviewed me. Now judging by the question and the tone I could easily infer the underlying question that was vexing her…”Just how small was that girl because you looked FAT and your man back seemed to be looking even bigger than usual!

So after explaining to her that the girl who interviewed me was all of about 4’10” and 83 pounds AND had to sit on a huge Oklahoma City phone book just to be at eye level with me…she seemed a little assuaged.

I called my brother after that interrogation had concluded and regurgitated the whole encounter to him. He just laughed his usual “I know exactly how you feel” laugh and said…”well Thanksgiving at our house should be fun! I wonder what she’s going to berate you for this year.”

I explained to him that Thanksgiving would be the determining factor in whether or not I stay state-side for Christmas or celebrate Jesus’ birthday by myself in London eating all the carbs and drinking all the beer my little stomach can handle. And doing it all guilt free…