Before you get yourself all in a tizzy over this post’s title. Note this: I calls ‘em like I see ‘em. And what I sees is a mom who sports a ginormous backside. To be fair I’m only three feet tall, so everything looks big to me. Also, because of my height her bum consistently hits me at eye-level, obstructing my view. It’s like trying to crane your neck around a dirigible.
Take last week for example. My mom was blocking my way in a clothing aisle at Target, (I was attempting to strategically hide in some Merona sweaters) so I yelled to her, “Move your big behind!” I thought it was a fairly straightforward (and hilarious!) way to communicate that she should, well, move her big behind. I was just trying to be accurate–you’d think she’d be impressed by my clarity. Think again. Jeeze, she got pissed. Touch-y.
What’s the, ahem, BIG deal? Compared to me or any of my dolls, bears, or action figures; or any of my mom’s childless friends; her bum is freakin’ huge. It’s all relative (and by relative I mean she obviously inherited my grammy’s double-wide hips.)
I’m guessing her reaction that day at Target might have something to do with how whiny she gets when she claims she can’t fit into any of her pants, shirts, skirts, tanktops, coats, t-shirts, culottes, underwear, sweaters, shorts, skorts, or shoes the way she used to ‘back in the day’ — which I’m assuming was sometime in the early 1920’s.
Hell, I’m pretty sure she blames me for her body falling apart — not directly but I get the hint. I will cop to, for a time, (roughly 9 months), taking up residence in her belly. But when I vacated I left the place exactly as I found it. I even got (most) of my security deposit back.
So zip it sister…oh that’s right, you can’t.