Give Mom a Kick-Butting Day

Mother’s Day is just around the corner.

That horrid one day of the year when families take mom out for brunch and fuss over her with eggs Benedict and Mimosas. Then she’s returned to the daily grind and all is forgotten.

I’m sure the restaurant industry contrived the holiday to beef up their bottom line in May.

What if mom doesn’t like eggs with a last name and orange juice spiked with bubbles? Maybe she prefers her steak grilled with a heaping plateful of shoestring potatoes and a large pitcher of sangria?

And please don’t give her a cheesy card with a sappy greeting that a computer spit out last century that you found in the greeting card aisle at the supermarket next to the artificial smelling air fresheners for the house. Definitely don’t buy one of those either.

Instead, head out to the mall and buy her an all expense paid shopping spree to her favorite shoe store. Or put her on a plane to a beach somewhere. Or give her a lifetime of body massages at the Holistic Health Clinic where Mai, the masseuse will be happy to walk all over her back.

Then install the dog in the pet hotel so she doesn’t have to walk him for a month.

Hire a private chef for the rest of the year and give her a break in the kitchen.

Oh wait. The kitchen. It needs a desperate overhaul before Wolfgang can cook there.

Maybe mom has a dream she’d like to focus on for a change. Provide her with the tools she needs. Lipstick, make-up, haircut and color, liposuction, a new wardrobe.

Singing lessons? Maybe she’s always wanted to develop her voice beyond yelling at the kids.

Calvin says, “My mom never got to develop herself. I know she had a secret nobody else knew. She always wanted to be an owner.”

A Conscience in a Bikini

I visited Victoria Secret this weekend. Everything was on sale. There was more merchandise on display that normal. Lots of color. Lots of customers. Mostly under the age of 15.

I rummaged through the panties first. There was hardly anything to them. They were so skimpy they would barely fit a Barbie doll. There was a new line called “Naked.” No kidding.

Then I looked at the bras. There was everything from animal prints to metalics, from push-ups to push-outs, and everything in between.

They were even selling corsets. Not the old fashioned type that turned a woman blue from asphyxiation. Vicky’s were red and black and belonged in a cabaret act.

I noticed two courageous husbands in the store. One stood by the bikini panties looking stunned; the other was waiting by the bras. His eyes grew to a size 36-DD while waiting for his wife.

“It looked like a feeding frenzy in there,” my husband said when I came out.

“There’s nothing there for a woman with a figure,” I said.

“Or a woman with a conscience,” he said.

Calvin says, “I wouldn’t be caught dead in an animal bikini.”