A BALLAD IN SCRATCH MINOR

“You want to go to Marshalls with me?” I heard my mom’s voice come through the phone. 

Was she kidding? Was that even a question? The allure of off-price retail chain stores pulls at me like a thrifty moth to a frugal flame. It’s like being offered the golden ticket to a nirvana of retail bargains! My heart skips a beat at the sheer thought of buying things I don’t need for a fraction of the price. 

“Absolutely, I wanna go to Marshalls!” I practically shouted into the phone. 

"I'm ready now," she said. “Can you be here in half an hour?” 

Half an hour? My pulse raced anticipating the savings bonanza that awaited me in just thirty short minutes.

I have a bit of a love affair with off-price retailers like Marshalls, T.J. Maxx, and Home Goods. There's something about scoring faux luxury items at rock-bottom prices that tickles my fancy. It's like playing a game of "Shop Til You Drop" without the looming threat of bankruptcy. I strut through those aisles like a penny-pinching peacock, mentally high-fiving myself with each deal I find. 

Once I’m back home, I proudly display the fire-sale finds to my husband, Patrick, who has perfected the art of the supportive yet resigned nod. "Guess how much this cost?" I squeal in excitement, holding up a designer knockoff like it's the Holy Grail.

"14.99! It was originally $89! Can you believe that?" I proudly beam, reveling in the glory of my thriftiness while Patrick contemplates his life choices. After twenty years of marriage, he's come to terms with the fact that his spouse is a certified shopaholic, beyond redemption. 

In my defense, I've become quite the savvy shopper over the years.

You see, what I’ve learned over many sessions of retail therapy is that it's not about the price tag; it's about the thrill of the hunt. Whether it's a $9.99 steal or a $999.99 splurge, the rush of buying is all the same. I don't need high-end labels to get my fix; the cheap stuff works just as well! Thank goodness for off-price retailers like Marshalls. So what if I have more throw pillows than I have throw pillow-worthy surfaces? It's called interior decorating, look it up.

Amazon might offer a quick fix for other sweatshop goods addicts. But it doesn’t pack the tactile satisfaction I need to scratch my shopping itch.

You know what I love more than scouring for deals? Scouring for deals with my mom. She is my partner in discount crime, my fellow explorer in the bargain basement abyss. Together, we conquer the ransacked aisles of Home Goods and emerge triumphant, clutching our low-priced loot and our inside jokes, ready to face the world with our wallets and sense of humor intact. We share a language only we understand, a dialect of bargain-hunting and nonsensical sayings. 

"That’s a racateria!" my mom will declare about an item she deems overpriced, to which I nod in agreement. You see, in Gloria-speak, "racateria," is a derivative of “racketeering” which translates to “extortion.” Who needs Rosetta Stone when you've got a mom with her own dialect? My mom has a slew of sayings that make no sense to the outside world. But I speak Gloria fluently and never miss a beat when we’re engaged in conversation. 

My mom is quite the character - a title she wears with pride, much to the amusement (and occasional bewilderment) of those around her. She’s the reigning queen of eccentricity. From a very early age, I recognized that my mom was a little quirky, different from the other suburban moms for sure. Yet never once did I doubt her credentials as a "good mom." Well, not since the eye-opening experience I had at the tender age of six, courtesy of my friend Khareeni and her family.

Khareeni and her clan, who lived across the street, hailed from the Middle East. They brought with them not just exotic cuisine, but also a unique approach to discipline that made my upbringing look like a walk in the park. Picture this: a plate of aromatic delicacies arriving at our doorstep, a gesture perhaps born from pity, as we were a mother-daughter duo fending for ourselves sans patriarchal supervision. I savored every bite, even if it came with a side of sympathy.

But let's address the elephant in the room, or should I say, the karate chop aimed squarely at the throat. Yes, you read that right. Whenever Khareeni dared to speak out of turn, her mother unleashed a swift, ninja-like strike to her larynx. She would yell “Shush it!” and accompany it with a precision blow to the vocal cords. The first time I witnessed this, I was frozen in shock, my young mind struggling to comprehend the scene unfolding before me. Rapid-fire chops ensued, leaving Khareeni gasping for air and me questioning the sanity of it all. 

In that moment of chaos and confusion, amidst the flurry of Bruce Lee choppy chops, I had an epiphany. My mom, with all her quirks and idiosyncrasies, was an absolute saint by comparison. Sure, she might have her moments of erraticism, but at least she never resorted to martial arts as a means of discipline. And for that, I will forever be grateful. 

My mom and I are very close and speak on the phone daily - sometimes multiple times a day. In many ways our relationship is similar to that of sisters. She popped me out at the ripe old age of eighteen, practically a kid herself. So, in essence, we’re a dynamic duo that grew up together. For many years, it was just me and her navigating life on our own. Sure, there were some additional players introduced when my pesky siblings barged onto the scene, but being light years ahead in age, it still felt like it was just mom and me against the world. My running joke is that I’m basically my mom’s stand-in husband, because let's face it, we’ve tackled life's twists and turns together like a seasoned pair of old pros. When I turned fifty, I contemplated buying my mom a gift for our “golden anniversary.”

Life with my mom has been akin to a rollercoaster ride - a mixture of fun and excitement peppered with a hint of terror. Like many moms and daughters, we've had showdowns that could rival any heavyweight boxing match. Tyson vs. Holyfield? Please, they don’t hold a candle to our showdowns. But beneath the jabs and jousts, she’s still my mom, and I’m her baby - albeit a baby who will out your most embarrassing moments in her writings. It’s cathartic, what can I say? At the end of the day, my mom is my greatest confidant, my closest friend, and when we’re together, laughter fills the room faster than you can say "family therapy."

Now, let’s talk about my mom's superpowers. First up, her ability to sniff out a rat like a bloodhound on a mission. Seriously, if there’s an awkward silence or an unspoken truth lingering, she's on it like white on rice. And her honesty? It’s so brutally raw, it could give sushi a run for its money. There’s no sugar-coating in her vocabulary - just straight-up, unfiltered truth bombs. The latter can be both endearing and off-putting. Case in point: our trip to Marshalls late last year.

“What do you need to get?” my mom asked as she got into my car.

“I’m not sure,” I replied. 

“We’ll find something,” she assured me like only a mother can. 

We sashayed into Marshalls like we owned the joint, my mom and I, ready to tackle the discount racks like a pack of ravenous hyenas. It's a dance of bargain ballet, and I pirouetted towards a 50-pack of pink velvet hangers like they're the zenith of closet organization. My mom shimmied over to a Fair Isle sweater for Pablo, my pampered English Bulldog, because apparently, even pets need a winter wardrobe. And oh, let's not forget my magnum opus: Rachel Zoe hoop earrings. Who doesn't need hoops the size of a small planet?

After about an hour of shopping, with our chests puffed out like we deserve a metal for savvy shoppers, we got in line to pay. As we inched triumphantly towards the checkout, my mom's mood took a noticeable nosedive. I thought perhaps she was put off because she, a thrifty yogi, didn’t find any yoga pants in the clearance section.

“What’s wrong?” 

"Look at that guy," she hissed, her face contorting like she’d just bitten a lemon. “How sick can you be?” she scoffed. My mother's reaction suggested that "that guy" had committed a crime against humanity. I braced myself for an eyeful of horror, something that would sear itself into my memory like a bad tattoo. I took a deep breath, probably my last as an innocent, and turned to face the cashier. There he was - Public Enemy Number One. But as my eyes adjusted, I saw what was clearly a monumental misunderstanding. He was just a regular guy, albeit one who treated his hair like a salad and wasn't shy about the dressing.

“What’sa matter with him?” I inquired, puzzled. 

"He's scratching like a chimpanzee at the zoo," my mom replied, with the all the subtlety of a sledgehammer, her voice loud enough to rival a foghorn. 

“Mom! Keep your voice down!” I tried scolding her before she created a spectacle in the checkout line. But it was too late. She was knee deep into a tirade against the griminess of public scratching.

"The guy has an itch! Let him scratch," I whispered, trying to save face in front of the bemused shoppers behind us.

“Oh no! That’s weer!” she retorted. “Weer” meaning “weird” in Gloria speak. 

“Who cares…” I began to say when I caught a glimpse of what had my mom’s panties in a bunch. Oh my goodness gracious. It was bad. A full-blown, no-holds-barred exhibition of something that should be reserved for the privacy of one’s own home. The young man behind the cash register was going to town on his... well, let's just say he was scratching where the sun don't shine. Was he rehearsing for a one-man show titled "The Itchy Chronicles: A Ballad in Scratch Minor?” 

I prayed to Mother Mary that we did not end up at his cash register. But fate, it seemed, had a wicked sense of humor.

“NEXT IN LINE. CASH REGISTER NUMBER 5,” blared the overhead speaker. And just like that, we found ourselves face-to-face with none other than Itchy Richie himself.

Cue the awkward music.

My mom wasted no time in unleashing a verbal barrage upon the itchy lad, questioning the morality of his scratching habits with all the subtlety of a bull in a China shop. “Why ju keep scratching ju balls like that? What’sa matter with ju?” she demanded, her accent lending an extra layer of indignation to her words.

Itchy Richie stood frozen, as if my mother had just brandished a weapon and demanded the contents of the cash register. He looked as bewildered as I felt, which is saying something considering I’ve spent a lifetime with the woman. But even I wasn’t prepared because I just didn’t have the words “scratching” and “your balls” on my bingo card that day. 

A tense standoff ensued. Itchy Richie stared wide-eyed at my mom, my mom staring him down like a gunslinger in a western. As for me, I was desperately trying to disappear into the linoleum floor. Finally, my mom delivered her coup de grâce: “I want to speak to your manager!” she declared, unleashing her signature move.

If there were an Olympic event for demanding to see the manager, I have no doubt my mom would be a gold medal contender. And in all fairness, she’s never been one to shy away from speaking her mind when the situation calls for it. It’s one of the things I admire most about her. But this? This was next level. 

Sure enough, a few moments later, a beleaguered-looking woman materialized at our register, bracing herself for the storm that is my mother. There I stood, caught in the crossfire of Testiclegate. Praying for divine intervention, I silently pleaded, “Sweet Jesus, take me now,” as my mom launched into a lecture on proper hygiene and public decorum. To distract myself, I thought, “Just imagine how cute Pablo will look in a Fair Isle sweater.”

Like a novice diplomat stepping on a landmine during peace talks, my mother embarked on her mission to educate the unenlightened manager on the fine art of male hand placement - specifically, the importance of keeping them north of the equator. She delved into the epic struggles of teaching my brother, the family's unrepentant crotch investigator, to keep his explorations private. Apparently, this wayward cashier before us missed out on such a tutelage. And now, there I was, bearing witness to a spectacle that would make even the most seasoned circus performer blush.

“Is this what Marshalls wants? A legacy of unabashed personal touching in public?” she demanded. 

The poor manager, bless her heart, looked as if she were contemplating a career change. Meanwhile, I was swinging between hysterical laughter and abject humiliation. But hey, at least we snagged those pink velvet hangers for a steal, right?

“I understand your concerns ma’am. I will talk to him,” the manager stammered, her voice tinged with desperation.

“Thank you,” my mom replied, adding a stern "And no more scratching," which she delivered to the cashier with the intensity of a courtroom judge.

The kid, cowed into submission, could only muster a meek nod. He rang me up in a palpable silence. I considered making a joke to lighten the mood, but decided against it. You see, my mother was right and he needed to learn her lesson. So, I let the cashier marinate in his newfound enlightenment, a silent gift from me to him. After all, isn’t a little public shame the secret ingredient to personal growth?

And so, with our heads held high (and my cheeks burning with embarrassment), we bid adieu to Marshalls, vowing never to return...until the next week, when my mom inevitably dragged me back for another round of discount shopping escapades. Because when it comes to bargain hunting, there’s no stopping the dynamic duo that is me and my mom. We’ll brave the most awkward encounters and endure the most cringe-worthy moments, all in the name of scoring the best deals in town. I guess you could say that, our desire for deals is akin to an insatiable itch demanding satisfaction.

—

My mom recently celebrated her 70th birthday. I felt compelled to honor her in words that captured her essence. I’m a staunch believer that adversity builds character, and my mother is the epitome of resilience. She is firm in her beliefs and unafraid in her convictions that not all itches should be scratched. For her unwavering strength and wisdom, I proudly declare myself her biggest fan.