Her: "No, I don't."

Myself: "I just said that."

At her silence, I switch tactics.

Myself: "OK ... would you wear, say, the Christian cross just because it looked good?"

Her: "Sure."

There is a pause as I am too appalled for words.

Myself: "So you're saying that you'll wear anything regardless of the meaning behind it as long as it satisfies your aesthetic needs?"

Her: "Yes."

Myself: "So you would wear a swas ... the symbol of the Third Reich?" I correct myself as I think perhaps "swastika" will be too obscure a word for her. A customer at the counter turns around and stares at me for a moment as we walk by.

Her: "Third Reich?"

(I go through this all the time. I must simplify nearly every single thing I say in order to accomodate my parents. It's quite possibly more frustrating than you are equipped to imagine, forcing myself to boil down everything to the terms easiest and quickest to convey, when I will endlessly debate the nuances of "smart" versus "clever" versus "intelligent" in their appropriate usage. This is not to mention the added task of trying to find the equivalent in Cantonese.)

Myself: "Nazis."

Her: "What's a Nazi?"

Myself: "..."

No reply from her.

Myself: "WWII. Hitler."

Her: "Oh. No."

Myself: "Why? Because of the history behind it or because you don't like how it looks? It's called a swastika, by the way."

Her: "I don't like how it looks."

Myself: "What's the huge difference, design-wise, between the Christian cross and the swastika?"

Her: "I don't like it."

Myself: "I think the swastika is well-designed. Simple, recognizable, iconic."

Her: "When you speak in English, I don't understand you as well."

Myself: "Sigh."

Round 3
Her: "Oh, look. Do you want one? It's a CD case with a calculator on it. It's on sale."

Myself: "Why would I need a CD case with a calculator on it? I have a much better calculator at home, plus many other gadgets that have extra calculators. I don't need another calculator."

Her: "But it's a CD case."

I can hear the wheels turning in her head: She listens to CDs. CDs need cases. Everyone needs calculators. What's the problem?

Myself: "It's a worse CD case for it. Not only is it heavier, it's more delicate due to the fact it has an electronic device attached. I don't understand how adding a calculator to something automatically makes it a better object when in fact the object in question has suffered both in form and function."

Her: "Look. That store sells guitars."

Ding.
 
Let's all go to the lobby, let's all go to the lobby, let's all go to the lobby ...

Ding.

Round 4
Her: "I think we're in the men's section. Let's go upstairs to the women's."

Myself: "Ok ... but they might have Hogwarts-style ties down here."

Her: "But men wear ties, Gloria."

This is a very old discussion.

Myself: "Mom? You know how women are allowed to vote these days? To drive? To hold jobs? To wear pants? I think they can wear ties."

Her: "I think the escalator is on the other side."

Round 5
Her: [Derisive laughter] "Pink? Definitely not for Wesley." (Wesley is my little brother.)

Myself: "Men can wear pink."

Her: "If he's gay."

Myself [trying to suppress my distasteful and mildly outraged tone]: "Mom. Who says that pink is only a colour for women and homosexuals? There is nothing inherent in pink that makes it that way -- nature does not dictate it. Only our society and culture has; if we had the courage to let go of that, pink would be fine for anyone. A man neither is nor becomes gay because he wears a pink shirt. It's a colour."

Her: "Do you think Wesley will like these socks?"

Round 6
I am feeling the quiet but growing tension.

Myself: "Do you want me to shut up? You don't seem to care about or listen to what I'm saying anyway." (Graceful, as always.)

Her: "I can tell you to shut up any time I want. I'm your mother; you're my daughter. I can kick you out of the house any time I want too."

Myself: "... Good, then. Ok." Round 7
(My mother is apparently a Hallmark diehard. I had no idea she attached this much meaning to the cards she gave us until this conversation.)

Her [reaching out towards the stacks]: "Do you see any cards for 17th birthdays?"

(I have censored my other brother's name per his penchant for freaking out that I talk about him with other people he has not approved with his own acquaintance.)

Myself: "[Bleep] doesn't care, Mom. None of us do." (Wesley is seven years old, so this is a valid blanket statement.)

Her [sounding very hurt]: "Fine."

Myself [after sighing under the fresh burden of guilt]: "Mom, do you really think we need cards to tell us that you care about and love us? You tell us every day, and we know it. It's not as though you made the card yourself; of course we'd keep something like that. But you just picked a card off a rack, a card that was probably previously picked by fifty other people."

Her: "Yes. Yes."

Myself: "I just saved you a dollar too."

Her: "Mm-hm."

Ding dong.

So there you have it -- a day in the life of Gloria and her mother when on a consumeristic jaunt through an exceedingly trashy mall. (My mother also does not understand the concept of trashiness, and when I try to explain it to her, she rebukes me for being so negative about strangers. When I attempt to explain no one who matters will know, she becomes huffily silent and implies that my presence has sullied her immediate environment.)

On this shopping trip as well, I had an actual, significant disagreement with my mother on a point of fashion -- an area over which we rarely have any troubles. I wanted new boots to wear with skirts -- she considered this request superfluous, as we had several pairs at home -- all of which, of course, I thought entirely unsuitable for my situation. Which is absolutely true.

As a natural next course of action, I, needless to say (but I shall say anyway), must acquire these boots as soon as possible.

I have entered teenagehood, truly, at long last.