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A monologue from the play by Jane Martin
An eighth grader is upset by the way her mother has dressed to go to the P.T.A. meeting.
Oh my God, Mom! You are not, I am completely serious, goinout of this house wearing that! B*tch me out. Do you know what you look like?
You are mega-embarrassing, OK? Mom! You are representing me at the P.T.A., I can’t have everybody’s eighth grade parents seeing you in hooker wear.
Ohmygod. Do you know how old you are? You are an ancient, decrepit person, Mom. Sorreee, but you are. Spaghetti straps, and don’t tell me that skirt passes the finger test, Mom!
Wait a minute, wait one minute, open your mouth and hold it open. Ohmygod, gross! Ohmygod, is that a tongue piercing?
Mother, menopause and tongue piercing are polar opposites, OK? Mom, there is a dress code, you can’t walk into the P.T.A. direct from the wh*re wars.
God, Mom, have a little respect, will you, you’re a dentist. I mean where are we headed here I would like to ask. Are you going to be one of those sixty-year-olds who look like steel prunes showing endless leg with plucked eyebrows and breast augmentation?
I warn you, Mom, if you set foot in the P.T.A. I will get Dad and Aunt Lucy and your therapist and Father O’Keefe, and we’ll do an intervention in the parking lot.
I mean hand over the tanning salon discount coupons. You know, I’m sorry but the difference between who you are and who you think you are is an unbelievable sag factor.
Now go upstairs this minute and put on something with long sleeves and flats. You can go to the meeting but, after that, ohmygod, you are soooo grounded!
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