My Mom Tried to Buy Me Porn for Christmas

Photo by D Sharon Pruitt

As a writer, I know the difference one single letter can make. Maya, a dear friend and publisher, once printed a thousand copies of a book in which “taping” was accidentally typed “raping.”

That, my friends, is why I read my work out loud before I run it, as often as possible.

It’s different with the whole texting thing. I rarely proofread text messages before I send them off, and so far, I haven’t made any critical mistakes. That is, until now – and it just figures that I would make that embarrassing error while texting my mother.

About a year ago, my cell phone buzzed, alerting me to a new text message. I opened my inbox. GUESS WHAT DAD GOT ME FOR MY BIRTHDAY? it read. Although the callback number was my mom’s, I found it hard to believe my mother was texting.

A teenager to send text messages for you? I responded.

It was just the beginning, of course. Mom must also have learned to use Google at the same time, because clearly, she found a guide to texting abbreviations somewhere and in short order started sending me texts like: K... C U L8R! My kids don’t even abbreviate to that point, and still, every message was entirely in capital letters, indicating my mother was shouting at the top of her lungs every time she sent a cellular quip. Let’s face it – fine is a far cry from FINE.

The next time I saw Mom, I asked if she was angry with me. At her blank look, I explained using all capitals in a text message was the same as yelling. She laughed and said she didn’t know how to change the case of the letters. I showed her how to disable the caps lock and reminded her to only use all caps when she intended to scream.

Mom recently texted to ask me what the kids, Mr. Wright and I wanted for Christmas. I responded with a lengthy reply, ending with a gift certificate for me from Zazzle.com. I’d designed an entire line of Gonzo Mama merchandise, and wanted to order some stock for my book signings. (Check out the entire Gonzo Mama line!) Anyway, I accidentally replaced the first letter of “Zazzle” with another, and Mom went clicking around the interwebs, trying to order my gift certificate.

The next texts I received were:

• R u sure this is what u want?
• Having trouble finding a place 2 order gift certs here... 

and

• It sez COMING SOON?

Confused, I pulled up the Zazzle site, where the link to order gift certificates was clearly functioning and prominently displayed. I sent Mom a response, asking her for the URL she was viewing. She sent me the web address I’d sent her – with the typo.

I then went to check out the page she’d been viewing. Sure enough, there was not a link to purchase a gift certificate, and the site did say “coming soon,” but the entire phrase was, instead, “COMING SOON: Readers’ Wives Photos!” and the site certainly wasn’t selling anything the Gonzo Mama would put her name or face on.

In certain situations, a phone call is more appropriate than a text, and I determined this to be one of them. I hastily dialed my mother’s number, and when she picked up, I began shouting, “Don’t click on anything! Go away from that page, Mom!”

She asked, “Are you angry with me? Because you’re using your ALL CAPS voice...”

Belts Are the New Lace Panties

I’m not one to admit defeat easily, but I must confess that I am still unable to comprehend the fashion sense of today’s teens. Chalk another point for the generation gap.

The jeans boys must – and do – wear are loose enough to hang halfway off boxer shorts-clad buttocks. When I first saw this startling spectacle on a young man, I thought, “How sad that his parents can’t buy him pants that fit… Look how loose they are! Either they’re hand-me-downs, or he lost a lot of weight recently.”

Little did I know, the saggy kid labored over finding a pair of pants with just the right amount of droop and a pair of underwear with colors just bright enough to make any passerby unable to tear his or her eyes away from the absolutely tragic collage of flannel, denim and bare boy butt.

Fortunately, the long, baggy t-shirt is frequently added to the ensemble, so most innocent bystanders have a chance of missing the “fashion flashin’,” unless the boy happens to be reaching high overhead, bending over, flying through the air on his skateboard or raising the back of his shirt to scratch his behind. Let’s face it – boys are typically engaged in one of these activities a majority of the time. That’s why The Belt is so important.

Picture it: School shopping, 2009… Pockets is thrilled with the belt he’s found. It’s black. It’s leather. It’s… covered in white metal studs?

“Um,” I begin, then stop. “Uh…” I try again. “Huh,” I manage. “That’s a wide, white belt. I haven’t seen one of those since Herb Tarlek from WKRP in Cincinnati made them the signature item for the tackily-dressed man. Metal studs, eh? You know, I could have B’Dazzled you a belt, if I’d known you wanted one…”

Pockets and The Dude launch their synchronized eye rolling routine. It’s really a spectacular feat to achieve the perfect timing, and I’m sure they’ll go pro, eventually. I’m their mother, so naturally I’m a huge fan.

“However, I am thrilled that you’ve found a belt that you like, so your pants won’t hang around the bottom of your caboose anymore,” I say. “Put it on! Let’s see!”

I see the belt poke through each belt loop. I see the buckle get buckled. Strangely, it does nothing for the elevation of the waistband. What a disappointment. Then, I watch as my fashion-savvy kid pulls his long t-shirt down, completely covering the embellished belt.

“What? You get a blinged out belt, and then you cover it up so no one can see it?” I don’t even try pretending I’m not confused.

Again, the eyes roll. Their timing is getting even more precise and – dare I say it – they’ve even added a little flair to the act. Impressive. High marks for artistic expression!

Sighing, The Dude explains, “Look, you get the blinged out belt. You wear it under your shirt, and if your shirt happens to hike up, people will see it. Or you can tuck just a bit of your shirt in… in the front. Like this.” He demonstrates. There’s a little tiny flash of shiny white metal showing. “See? Just a hint. It’s cool.”

Well, I never! Who would wear a piece of clothing that no one sees, except in cases of an accident or when discreetly flashed? That makes no sense at all! Does it?

Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/revjim/ / CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

The Dumbing Down of America

For those lucky enough to know The Gonzo Mama in real life, it comes as no surprise when she refuses to vote for a candidate whose campaign literature appears to be crafted by someone who failed to pass middle school English.

Routine, too, is the sight of her red-lining a direct mail piece and sending it back to the offensive junk mail monger with editorial notes... in his own postage-paid envelope, no less. That's right - the illiterate pile of moose droppings gets to pay for the pleasure of reading The Gonzo Mama's list of reasons why he sucks.

Call it a severe case of "grammarphilia," if you must. The fact remains that The Gonzo Mama has a very low tolerance for poorly-constructed written material and perfunctory use of the English language.

In her essay, Education Limbo: How Low Can You Go?, Mama clearly outlines why our nation's schools are to blame for this widespread and offensive epidemic.

It's the latest installment of her column over at Motherhood: From Egg to Zine (and everything in between). Check it out, and rant along!