You Chipmunks are so clever. That’s why I do these things.
And you’re no fools, either. Most of you wisely appealed to my vanity and/or fantasy life with your amazing ‘win a pair of mustache glasses‘ entries, in which I asked you to submit a juicy, probing question.
As promised, I have picked a favorite question and am answering it here. This particular entry really stuck with me; much like scorpion paperweights, I couldn’t stop thinking about it, even when I wanted to.
So please, raise your tiny, adorable, chipmunk paws and give a warm round of applause to…
Dearchristiancounselor’s (a.k.a. Louise’s) question was:
If you and [your mom] Babs had a cage fight, who would win and how?
Louise, needless to say, it got really, really ugly between Babs and me. Before I reveal the winner of the cage fight, let me take you back in time, to how it all started…
Babs and I were spending another typical Saturday out shopping, me shielding her from mom jeans, her encouraging me to spend actual money. Of course we were ultimately killing time until booze o’clock. We figured we could make it until at least noon.
A few [dozen] Long Island Iced Teas in, Babs decided she couldn’t stay away from Talbots any longer.
“If you do this, Babs, we’re through,” I threatened. Had she forgotten so soon? This was the very same clothing store that suggested, just one year ago, I try their curvy line of pants.
“Just five minutes,” she pleaded. I watched her pass through the wretched red doors in disbelief.
She emerged, as promised, five minutes later, wearing pleated khaki pants, a braided leather belt, white mock turtleneck and navy sweater vest with apples and pears stitched on it.
“I can’t even look at you,” I muttered.
“Listen, Chipmunk-san, do you want to take this to the cage?”
I considered her for a long moment. In that get-up, she wasn’t my mother. She was the enemy.
“You’re on!” I cried.
A Talbots saleswoman in a referee jersey appeared, and pretty soon we were pulling out our best roundhouse kicks and other things that people may or may not do while cage fighting.
“I loved you too much, was that the problem?” Babs cried, shielding herself from my [cute yet affordable] high-heeled kicks.
“You never bought me that American Girl doll!” I hollered back. “Samantha was all class, all the time! I had to learn how to eat petit fours by myself! What did you think was going to happen?”
“You never comment on my Facebook pictures,” she continued in the same martyred voice.
“Tap shoes! I said. “Remember those? Of course you don’t! I don’t either!” I ducked before she could ruin my make-up.
“And we never talk about ‘NSync anymore. Remember when you bedazzled that striped fleece shirt to say ‘Justin’ for the one concert?”
I narrowed my eyes, “Just for that, I’m never having kids.”
Babs paused, her fist in the air. She lowered her arm and replied, “Good. I don’t even like your dog.”
My jaw dropped. While I tried to gather myself, she clocked me right where it counts – in the heart.
And so, unsurprisingly, the winner of the cage fight is:
Didja have fun? Should I make this a recurring contest? (With a new topic each time?)