It was the first thing she saw each morning when she woke up, and the last thing she saw before falling asleep. It bungled her dreams and ruined her days.
For as far back as Tammy could remember it had hung there, taking up almost the entire wall. The monstrosity was an eyesore; a waste of valuable space where Barry Manilow and Led Zeppelin posters should have been proudly displayed.
She’d begged them to let her take it down, but her farty old grandparents wouldn’t budge.
“No, dear. It would be disrespectful,” they’d said.
She hated that portrait; the way it mocked her, sat in haughty disapproval of the few friends she had, dismissed her half-assed efforts at self-improvement. It seemed to know she would never measure-up and made fun of her for trying.
She could tell by the way the portrait rolled its sultry green eyes when Tammy glanced its way, hoping for parental approval.
Yes, the portrait was of her mother who had died giving birth to Tammy–another reason for it to hate her. Eventually, she quit trying and accepted herself as she was. Not everyone was cut out to be a svelte, heart-stoppingly gorgeous and über-talented artiste like ol’ Mommy Queerest up there.
I mean, seriously! Could Tammy help that she was:
a) addicted to Oreos with Double Stuff
b) able and more than willing to devour a party-size Domino’s Ultimate Deep-Dish Extravaganza pizza with double cheese in one sitting, and
c) accustomed to slamming three (okay, four) packages of Twinkies for breakfast‽
Tammy had had enough of the whole thing. It was time to level the playing field.
One dreary afternoon after Horseshoe Pitching 101 let out, Tammy trundled to the college bookstore to purchase supplies for her playing-field-leveling toolkit. The bill for the four items came to less than she’d anticipated, which left the door wide open for a celebratory bag of Oreos.
Later, as she munched the last hunk of cheese-stuffed pizza crust , she took Magic Marker in greasy hand and considered the options:
Would Mom prefer purple-rimmed kitty-cat glasses, or the John Lennon bottle-cap style?
Then there was the moustache: red, waxy handlebar, or a black & bushy Stalin-esque cookie duster…
Oooh! How about an indigo tattoo on one of those over-sized paws that passed for hands?
The Daily Post: Enthusiasm