Plymouth Rock City

Unfortunately, I've planned it so that I'll be eating and drinking my way around Bavaria mere hours before encountering my mother in her latest incantation, that of a newly svelte 48-year old, gastric bypassed woman. Figuring I'll be jetlagged as hell and fighting bantam instead of feather for a week, I've decided to resign myself to the holiday beatdown by placing my soul in small jar and just handing it over to her when she picks me up at the train station, saving myself the resistance energy and allowing her to devote more time to trying to win that damn "fiddle of gold/best that's ever been" bet she's always on about.

The expression on her face didn't tip you off that you might be getting a raw deal?

Still, there's a definite amount of interest amongst friends as to what exactly my mother looks like, having not seen her since about 50 pounds ago. Having gone through gastric bypass surgery followed by a DJ Tanneresque workout routine, she's almost halved her weight, and despite my inquiries towards whether or not she's covered in wrinkly old lady skin, she refuses to say or send pictures, as she's worried that I'll place them on the internet (and yet, I'm entrusted with her living will). My grandmother was allowed to see some hard copy photos of my mom in her underwear (I assume she used the camera's timer option and most definitely did not ask my dad to snap them, for self-preservation reasons), and confirms that my mother does indeed look "kinda creepy", and my uncle informs me that she's definitely lost her rather formidable boobs (I assume he asked someone else to judge, and most definitely did not look at his own sister's chest, again, for self-preservation reasons), but I won't really be able to see for myself until Wednesday night.

The other issue is the excessive preachiness that accompanies such an incredible weight loss. While I'm happy that she's healthier and able to nag more actively, the woman's definitely listing towards the "rub it in" side of the Good Ship Educate Others. Between myself and my grandmother--who each year brandishes a knife in order to proclaim ownership of the giblets and neck, despite the fact that in my 27 years of existence, no one has ever once even gagged in their general direction-- neither of us are looking forward to the disapproving looks and admonishments that will accompany each bite of food that surpasses the half a cup mark. Our only real hope is to find some small chink in her armor, some fatal flaw that wasn't there before surgery, and when reaching for seconds, exploit, exploit, exploit.

No thanks, I'm stuffed from lunch at the rendering plant.