Wake Up And Smell the Cat Food

This is a picture of my mother, sort of. Of course, it's a photo of Elizabeth Taylor, whom my mother always resembled to a wacky degree except that Mom was a natural blond with lighter blue eyes. Picture that. Picture your mother being the blond version of Elizabeth Taylor, and picture men following your cart through the produce aisle. Picture what happens when the car breaks down and the tow truck arrives. Picture Mom not noticing because that's just how people act. Picture your Mom, young when you're born, bowling in black stirrup pants, mowing the lawn in a bikini, creating a stir at the PTA meeting with her mere presence. Your job: try not to develop a complex.

Friday afternoon, I was on a mission in the grocery store: to plan five or six menu items for a surprise party Saturday night. I walked slowly, recalculating each idea as I found or couldn't find ingredients. Three-quarters of the way through the aisles I was exhausted by the effort. I walked in circles until I found a hand of ginger I knew must be near shallots. At the register, I stood blankly while the cashier struggled with a large order complicated by food stamp regulations. The customer seemed used to matching items to the papers but I felt her watching me for signs of impatience or scorn so I studied the soap opera magazines with what shred of attention I still possessed. Finally, I was helping the very young boy packing my groceries into my canvas bags when I looked up and saw a tiny figure behind me in a black peacoat, a Greek fisherman's hat and black jeans.

"Hey," I said. "You're my mother." The cashier stops what she's doing and the boy struggles to bag 18 eggs. Mom says, "Why, yes I am," and goes on to explain her appearance which, if I'm honest, looks a little unusual. She says she's had migraine all day. That's news and I had two simultaneous reactions.

1. Shit, Mom had a migraine. I bet she feels bad; and:
2. Shit, Mom had a migraine, which means migraines are almost certainly in my future. Shit!

"You look like Comrade Gidget controls the means of production," I say.
"Why don't you stay to help your Mom?" the boy asks.
"Mom, do you need help?"
"No, I'm looking forward to getting a little exercise with the bags," she says brightly.
"Then I'm off like a prom dress," I say, and I am.