I took a picture of the two-pound monstrosity and sent
it to my daughter. “Look what Lee and Jess sent me in their Christmas box,” I
texted. “I don’t know what to think. What do I tell them when we Facetime later
this morning?”
Her carefully worded answer was classic.
“Well,” she wrote, taking her time before texting
back, “you could try something like, “It’s really sparkly!” Her own grandmother
would be proud.
“How very Mam-ish of you,” I replied.
My mother-in-law, who we call “Mam,” turned 91 last
month. While she’s been accused of having lost her filter, she clearly has not
lost her mind or her health. Every time I hear what a good checkup she’s just
had at the doctor’s office, I remind her that I’ve made her the beneficiary of my
will. She loves that.
The truth is, she does know how to be tactful. For
example, whenever she’s in the presence of a beaming young mother holding her
not-yet-attractive newborn, Mam knows just the right thing to say. “My, what a
healthy looking baby!” she gushes. It works every time.
My daughter’s carefully worded appreciation was
clearly genetic. On her father’s side.
I looked all over the back of the cardboard holding
this lime green work of art, but there were no Christmas messages or
explanations. Not even any directions or health warnings about whatever
questionable content the Chinese jewelry was made of. I can’t begin to tell you
how confused I was by the gift I held. Semi-circular and connected nose to tail
with heavy links of faux-gold, I was the proud owner of a bold statement piece
certain to set off metal detectors if I dared wearing it through airport security.
For once, I wouldn’t mind relinquishing a prized possession into the hands of
the TSA. After all, they asked for it.
My computer screen lit up. It was time. I had to tread
carefully. With my scrambled intuition on high alert, I pasted a delighted look
on my face and answered the Christmas call from my son. He was alone in his
office. Laughing. It didn’t take long to sort out the truth while the rest of
his family remained in the other room, unaware.
“Hold on,” I told him, feeling my shoulders relax as I
exhaled. “I’ll go put it on.”
I came back with the giant salamander hanging heavily
across my ample bosom. The fake rhinestones covering its body were blinding,
its fiery red eyes glowed demonic.
"Hang on a sec," my son sputtered, nearly
asphyxiated by his own howls of laughter. I drummed my fingers on the desk and
waited while he gathered his composure. There’s nothing better than being the
butt of a good joke. I’ve heard.
At last, he spit out the story of his wife’s discovery
of the priceless piece on Temu and how she couldn’t stop laughing over the
computer image.
“Who can we give it to?” she giggled, clicking the “Purchase”
button on her smart phone. “I know! Your mom!” she shrieked. “And we won’t
include any explanation!”
I’d been set up.
Whatever happened next, she had it coming.
Lee shielded the screen on his laptop while he carried
it into the dining room and called the family to gather around for our
Christmas phone call. I sat demurely in front of the camera on my computer,
saying nothing, wearing that hideous costume jewelry around my neck and trying
to keep my back straight under its weight. Good thing I’ve been going to
Pilates for two years. A strong core is key.
The grandchildren gathered, distracted by the gifts I’d
sent still waiting to be opened on their end of the continent, oblivious of my
attire. Jessica was the last to join the party, settling in with her famous
smile and good nature, acting like nothing untoward was happening on the screen
in front of her . . . until . . .
Her eyes bugged out and she buried her face in her
hands in hysterics.
It worked. She was ashamed of herself.
“Oh my gosh!” she exclaimed, wiping tears from her
eyes. “That’s the funniest thing I ever saw!”
It didn’t work. She was unrepentant.
Her Southern accent kicked in like she was channeling
Paula Deene, and the story of her proud purchase spilled out all over their
dining room table. She knew what she’d done. She knew who to target. She knew the
moment I saw it I’d be paralyzed somewhere between guilt and humiliation—guilt about
hating it and humiliation if I had to wear it in public and pretend I loved it just
like I’ve done with every macaroni necklace I’ve ever owned.
It was the best Christmas present she’d ever given
herself. It reminded me of the fairy tale about the princess who had to prove
she was royal by sleeping on a tower of mattresses that, unknown to her,
concealed a princess-brutalizing green pea beneath them all. Another classic set
up. Only in my case, a woman who is a survivor of Southern ancestors, no matter how much I try to
break free from my people pleasing roots, all it takes is a tacky gift from
relatives and suddenly I’m lying again about how much I love it. Western born,
I am still a Southern girl deep down.
Bless my little pea-pickin’ heart.
When the call and the laughter ended, I took a screen
shot of myself wearing the heavy Asian idol and sent it to my daughter with
this short message:
“It was a joke.”
She wrote back with the same sense of relief I felt at
not being forced to Mam-ify the whole thing.
“Thank God,” she texted.
So now it sits here on my desk, wrapping my little stuffed
elephant in its gaudy embrace. I’d feel sorry for him but the look of betrayal in
his eyes makes me laugh.
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