Okay, I lost The Muse, but I think she's back. Check out what I've cooked up for you, and REJOICE!
Mama is now 73 years old. She's been smoking since the age of six when she latched to her daddy's pipe like Miley Cyrus onto a bottle of Night Train. Her father thought it was cute, and the tobacco industry has since been forever grateful.
Presently, she has a hump on her back, no back teeth, and floats about the house in a cloud of Prada perfume. (Float is too kind. She scoots. “Ouch! Carpet does burn!”) The hump is used by Daddy to guide her through grocery stores, hospitals, and casinos. He is her GPS. Her lack of back teeth is a direct result of a steady diet of Kraft Tapioca Pudding®, Nestle's Quik®, and Diet Caffeine Free Coca-Cola®, because, “I just can’t handle the jitters.” As far as perfume, it plays a far more dramatic role…if that’s even possible.
Mama chooses her perfume based on the caché of the brand, and it’s ability to adhere to any surface (like Kim Kardashian), but not necessarily for its scent. She possesses no sense of taste, or smell, so what's the point? For Mama, the primary objective of a fine perfume is its' ability to mask the smell of death that has been haunting her since 1976 when she fell, and suffered a "slipped disc” which conveniently led to 30 years of bed rest. Be thankful this essay isn’t a Scratch-n-Sniff® product. For Mama, the slipped disc was a blessing. It gave her the three things she has always wanted: An unlimited supply of Valium, a designer fragrance, and a semi-conscious state of being that absolved her of any and all responsibility. Her own Manifest Destiny realized.
In the 70’s, Mama’s perfume of choice was Halston, and in the 80's it was Obsession. As Mama put it, "I can only tolerate Calvin Klein's perfumes. Everything else gives me a migraine." For someone who couldn't stomach the smell of a toilet bowl cleaner, she had no issue with huffing whatever petrochemical Calvin Klein shot out of his ass, and in the 80's what petrochemical wasn't being shot out of Calvin's ass? Unfortunately, perfume does little to disguise the stench of cigarette smoke, premature decomposition, or reduce the chances of spontaneous combustion. Mama always did like to tempt fate. Any woman that smokes, and uses Aqua Net simultaneously, is either a true risk taker, a pyromaniac, or a circus performer. Given that Mama's brain stem is calcifying, and she can still get her legs behind her head (a claim I have yet to verify) I’ll check the carny box on this survey.
A dental assistant, that I once worked with (and have issued a restraining order against) supposedly found Jesus after spending several years snorting cocaine, and riding stripper poles. (According to her, Jesus was a "Breast-Man, and a heavy tipper") She told me that my mother was not crazy, but was most likely attempting to disguise a demon that had latched onto her because, "When you can't identify a smell, or when it seems that an odor is following you, you can bet that you've got the stink of a demon on ya’." While I like the idea of Mama being haunted by a demon, I don't trust anyone who gave up thigh high boots, and an endless supply of booze, for a life of latex gloves, and spit. It certainly was quite clever, but I couldn't buy it. Mama is simply a miracle of science. She should no longer possess any higher brain functions, nor the ability to break wind, yet somehow she persists to exist despite the odds, and despite the demon. God bless her hickory smoked, blackened heart.
Presently, she has a hump on her back, no back teeth, and floats about the house in a cloud of Prada perfume. (Float is too kind. She scoots. “Ouch! Carpet does burn!”) The hump is used by Daddy to guide her through grocery stores, hospitals, and casinos. He is her GPS. Her lack of back teeth is a direct result of a steady diet of Kraft Tapioca Pudding®, Nestle's Quik®, and Diet Caffeine Free Coca-Cola®, because, “I just can’t handle the jitters.” As far as perfume, it plays a far more dramatic role…if that’s even possible.
Mama chooses her perfume based on the caché of the brand, and it’s ability to adhere to any surface (like Kim Kardashian), but not necessarily for its scent. She possesses no sense of taste, or smell, so what's the point? For Mama, the primary objective of a fine perfume is its' ability to mask the smell of death that has been haunting her since 1976 when she fell, and suffered a "slipped disc” which conveniently led to 30 years of bed rest. Be thankful this essay isn’t a Scratch-n-Sniff® product. For Mama, the slipped disc was a blessing. It gave her the three things she has always wanted: An unlimited supply of Valium, a designer fragrance, and a semi-conscious state of being that absolved her of any and all responsibility. Her own Manifest Destiny realized.
In the 70’s, Mama’s perfume of choice was Halston, and in the 80's it was Obsession. As Mama put it, "I can only tolerate Calvin Klein's perfumes. Everything else gives me a migraine." For someone who couldn't stomach the smell of a toilet bowl cleaner, she had no issue with huffing whatever petrochemical Calvin Klein shot out of his ass, and in the 80's what petrochemical wasn't being shot out of Calvin's ass? Unfortunately, perfume does little to disguise the stench of cigarette smoke, premature decomposition, or reduce the chances of spontaneous combustion. Mama always did like to tempt fate. Any woman that smokes, and uses Aqua Net simultaneously, is either a true risk taker, a pyromaniac, or a circus performer. Given that Mama's brain stem is calcifying, and she can still get her legs behind her head (a claim I have yet to verify) I’ll check the carny box on this survey.
A dental assistant, that I once worked with (and have issued a restraining order against) supposedly found Jesus after spending several years snorting cocaine, and riding stripper poles. (According to her, Jesus was a "Breast-Man, and a heavy tipper") She told me that my mother was not crazy, but was most likely attempting to disguise a demon that had latched onto her because, "When you can't identify a smell, or when it seems that an odor is following you, you can bet that you've got the stink of a demon on ya’." While I like the idea of Mama being haunted by a demon, I don't trust anyone who gave up thigh high boots, and an endless supply of booze, for a life of latex gloves, and spit. It certainly was quite clever, but I couldn't buy it. Mama is simply a miracle of science. She should no longer possess any higher brain functions, nor the ability to break wind, yet somehow she persists to exist despite the odds, and despite the demon. God bless her hickory smoked, blackened heart.
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