The reason my Mother cannot shop for me is because we have different tastes
The last time I recall my mother earnestly shopping for me with any success was grade school when the coolest clothing option out there was garanimals. My mother could match a mean zebra top with a bitchin’ zebra bottom all week long and I would strut out of J.C. Penny’s looking stunning and stylish. Following the heyday of garanimals, my mother and I have been wandering around in different style and decor worlds ever since. My mother cannot shop for me for anything. It applies to clothing, books, furnishings, hair styles, shoes, art, decor. You know, like everything. This parting of sensibilities is at least one reason why it’s difficult for us to buy anything for each other that might actually be welcomed. My favorite store is Anthropologie or a retro thrift store and hers is Coldwater Creek or T.J. Maxx. I wear metallic platform wedge shoes and she wears white canvas keds. She gets her hair “done” every Friday at the Beauty Shop. I have my hair colored at VVegaz where the stylists sport tattoos. My mother is what you call PROPER. I am, well, somewhere below proper. When shopping for her, I try to figure out what I’d like the least in hopes that she will like it. I’m sure she does the same.
My Mother still tries to shop for me on occasion
This dichotomy is why I was so surprised when my mom gave me this Buddha statue a few years ago. He is as tall as he is wide, which is about ten inches. I placed him in a spot of honor on my desk in my home office where I hang out frequently. My mother no doubt assumed I would punt it to Goodwill immediately, but knowing she probably thought that, I actually love it.
He is a jolly albino buddha with tangerine lips. He has perky moobs and the signature Santa tummy. I’ve never once rubbed his belly because there is this climbing baby scaling his paunch. His ceramic robes are colorful and ornate, at least by mainstream teakwood Buddha standards. I’ve never seen anything like it before, a Buddha pimp surrounded by Asian toddlers sucking on Buddha’s teats before. I’m not all that worldly either, though. I’ve looked at this statue for years pondering whether the figurine was just absurd or what it meant. It could have been a sacrilegious Buddha or a a pervy Buddha for all I knew. I’ve wanted to write a post about it but could never figure out what to say. Only recently did it occur to me to investigate its origins on this new-fangled thing called Google on The Internets. As it turns out, the babies aren’t hungry or demonic Asian toddlers at all.
They are The Five Precepts which represent all these buzzkilly moral codes like:
1. Try not to kill things. People mostly, but causing living things to be un-alive is frowned upon.
2. Avoid sexual misconduct, you know, when possible. We know boys will be boys, and girls will be slut-shamed.
3.Cut out stealing, because no one thinks that shit is funny.
4. Keep lying to a minimum, even to your mother when she picks out a knitted Christmas sweater with three-dimensional presents and teddy bears on it.
5. Leave drinking intoxicants to the experts. No booze for you!
Do you think my mother was trying to send me a subtle message about not committing mortal sins? I have no idea what any of this means or why you would care but I didn’t want to be the only person confused, then enlightened about the albino Buddha. You’re welcome.