Truth in advertising

I got a phone call from untitledmother the other day. She had my sister-in-law sign her up for eHarmony, and she wanted a good photo of herself for posting purposes. You know, a photo in which her head isn’t being swallowed by her neck and her teeth are a color other than camel.If she had her way, she’d have us Photoshop her to within an inch of her life, removing the rolls and wrinkles, giving her hair, bone structure and other such physical accoutrements. I feel bad for the poor schlump who responds to her post. There he’ll sit in a coffee shop, waiting for Sophia Loren to come walking in the door. Instead, he’ll get Jabba the Hut.

On her profile, she listed the following as her priorities: her children (the ones she shops for at the dollar store only after she has spent the bulk of her money on Lancome for herself), church (the one she only attends every six months and blames it on pedophile priests), and travelling. Stopping by the KarmelKorn stand in the mall qualifies as travelling, no?

In reality, the last time she travelled was five years ago, and it was with me. We went on a cruise together. She got so stressed out by the whole experience that she spent the entire flight home in the airplane’s bathroom with a case of the atomic shits. She emerged from the crapper looking like she’d just spent a year in the bush, eating grubs and sleeping in an earthen quonset. untitledhusband picked us up from the airport that day and about lost his shit when he saw her. His amusement was soon replaced by horror when she placed a newspaper under herself in our car, and then proceeded to soil it like a common barn animal.

One of the traits that she listed as a dislike was “laziness.” This, from a woman who sits for days (again, I wish I was exaggerating) on her sofa, living vicariously through the old westerns, made-for-TV movies and the trashy dog-eared novels that she denies reading. If not for bathroom and food breaks, she’d get no exercise at all. Every now and then, I’ll get a phone call from her on Saturday afternoon. “Say, did you see this movie about the woman whose husband has three legs?” “No, mother, I didn’t catch that one. Was it on Bravo? PBS? HBO? Oh — it was on LIFETIME.” My TIVO must’ve been busy taping re-runs of “Walker, Texas Ranger.”

Someone needs to remind her that dating would require her to actually comb the back of her hair and maybe even walk to her car. Such revelation just might sour this whole eHarmony thing a bit for her. C’mon mother. Get real. You don’t want a boyfriend. You want a little man servant — someone to shave the dead skin off your heels and fetch you chocolate covered peanuts.

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