Le paparazi m'en veut

I turned the key in the lock and opened my kitchen door. I had agreed to meet my mom during our lunch hour and had arrived just a few minutes before her – just enough time to prepare a ham and cheese sandwich on the fresh, spongy wheat bread I had bought the night before. Even though I had long since progressed to the healthier, heavier multigrain breads, I felt possessed during my last trip to the grocery section of Wal-Mart to take a taste trip back to my childhood, when I would sit at my grandmother’s dining room table, trying to tell her about the latest playground drama as I tried with my tongue to swish away the congealed Wonder Bread glued to the roof of my mouth. As I spread a dollop of mustard onto the slice before me, I heard a knock at the front porch door.

“Hi! I brought along a couple of changes of clothes so that you can take a few glamour shots of me before lunch,” my mother said exuberantly. “Go get your digital camera. I want to put these on my matchmaking website by this Friday.”

We were both aware, of course - but as you may not be - that my father (her ex-husband) is a photographer and, were he there, would be able to quickly dismiss the request with an insistence upon doing the shoot under proper lights in the studio. This tactic would have sucked the air out of her idea balloon under those particular circumstances, but both my mother and I (and you, too, now) know that I had no such excuse for a delay/dissuasion.

“Uh, Mom, that’s just odd – making your son take pict…” I began to reply.

I promptly shut my mouth after realizing in a flash (pun intended) that I wasn’t going to win this battle. Defeated, I scrambled back to the computer desk in my bedroom and snatched the camera from its docking station. I returned to the living room, heavy with the fear of what treasurable moments might be in store for me.

“Okay,” I sighed, “we can do creepy pictures of you sitting on the couch like Grandma – only without a cigarette in hand, or we can move outside and take them in front of the… traffic on the street… er… or the non-flowering bush next to the neighbor’s house. Your choice!”

She chose the bush, and maneuvered into her first pose.

“You look like a slut, Mom! I’m not taking your picture like that.” I couldn’t believe the lewd pose she had struck, and I didn’t care that my voice had probably floated across the street and into the open neighbor’s window. At that moment, I was struck with the notion that I had never wanted, nor do I want to see again, my mother’s bedroom eyes. Flashing them once for my father was enough to bring me to this particular day and time. I temporarily – and silently - cursed that moment.

“Good.” I could see the horns sprout from her scalp. “Maybe that way I can get a date!”

I took several saucy snapshots of her in various poses in front of the withering shrubbery, then begged to return to the kitchen and finish making the sandwiches. Having already had my mind taken back to my childhood by the scent of the Wonder Bread, I found myself wanting to retreat further into the relative innocence of my childhood. I had no such luck.

“Don’t be silly! I brought a few more outfits to change into and want to do some fun shots!” She disappeared into my closet after walking briskly by my side. If the shots we had just taken weren’t considered “fun,” I didn’t want to see what “fun” would bring for me or her future online suitors.

“Where are you going?” I asked. Okay, I whined.

“Oh, I just wanted to borrow a pair of your jeans…”

“You’re not going to wear my clothes, Mom. I’ve had enough of Glamour Shots time.”

“Fine,” she sulked, then brightened again. “Then let me put on one of your blazers and a tie.”

“No.”

She shut herself in the bathroom, which adjoins my walk-in closet. I halfway expected her to emerge wearing a full but mismatched ensemble of my articles of clothing, or – worse – a trench coat ripe for the flashing. She tossed open the door, revealing a much more subtle costume change: She had taken off her sweater and turned it inside out before pulling it back over her head. Grateful for the dissolution of my nightmare scenarios, I did not question her choice in reversible fashion.

“See? It’s a whole new outfit!” Her hair had been drawn back into a “fun” pony tail.

We took several shots of her on the porch: looking longingly into the distance, laughing while seated in my deck chair, et cetera. I finally won the fight to finish the sandwiches after explaining that I could not deal with the further formation of stress-induced ulcers by adding malnutrition to my list of worries. We supped uneventfully; I was preparing to see Mom to the door and get back to my campus office when she exclaimed:

“Go get your camera again!”

“Jesus,” I thought. “I can only imagine.” Mom had disappeared into my bedroom.

“What are you doing?” I implored her with my tone to return to her move toward departure.

She had moved in front of my tall bookcase to rummage through my novels and old college textbooks, and fetched out a short French novel. She opened the book and gazed into it with the look of an academician.

“Take my picture. I want to look well-read,” she asked kindly.

It would have been classic if she had been wearing a t-shirt that read “I don’t know French,” or had she been holding the book upside-down. Thankfully for her pride and my own, she was not. I could not believe what I had been reduced to do in the name of satiating my parent. I believe you understand the degree to which I love my mother now. It is worth doing nearly anything to see her happy.

It would be tasteless of me to post any of the photos taken during this session, so I won’t… for now. Let’s just say that I’m a good photographer’s son and made my mother look like a million bucks – despite the unusual props and backgrounds. Ironically, my mom felt that they added ten years and twenty pounds. Perhaps I’ll try my hand at the old Photoshop airbrush tool.

Oh, the stories I’ll have to tell future generations… I love you anyway, Mom!