“Your dad has gone on a diet…maybe you two can have a contest to see who can lose the most weight?” her mother said as she grabbed a drumstick out of the pan with a fork.  The chicken had been swimming in a skillet of oil.

“I haven’t gone on a diet…you put me on one!”  Her dad interjected with frustration. 

“Now Louis, you know that heavy genes run in your family, and you also know that Sam takes after you and your side.  A diet is the only way for you two to look normal,” her mother said condescendingly. 

“A diet?  Do you think I need to go on a diet, Mom?” Samantha asked trying to hide the mixture of anger and humor she felt.  Strange how much of a fine line it was between the two.  She was angry her mother was insulting her with the ‘diet’ thing, but it was humorous to watch her work her manipulative ideas.   

“Well, you do have a very pretty face, dear, but it would probably do you some good to lose a few pounds…maybe fifty or so.  It would help you find a husband easier.  Men don’t look at your face…if you know what I mean.” 

“No…enlighten me, Mom.” 

“Men, well…men look at your body.  The face really isn’t high on their list of things to look for in a woman, and if you want to catch a rich man…you’ll need to look your best.  You’ll need to look like you did in high school…boy you were sure beautiful back then.  Everyone thought you were a model!” 

Samantha watched as her mother stabbed another piece of fried chicken with the pronged instrument she held.  Tonight her mother was making fried chicken, fried potatoes, asparagus blanketed with white cream sauce, and French bread dripping with butter.  She almost laughed out loud at the irony.  

“Now that you’ve taught me what a man is looking for…I’m curious as to why you would think I would want a man or a husband for that matter? I’m perfectly happy in my life without a man.”  Samantha reached into the maple cabinet and pulled out a black plate.  

“Are you a lesbian?”  Her mother’s hand covered her heart. 

“No, Mom, I’m not a lesbian. I don’t want a man or even a rich man for that matter.  I’m going to make my own way in the world.  I’m going to make a difference!” 

“In psychology?  No one makes any money in psychology!” 

“It’s not about money…it’s about helping people,” Samantha said with pride. 

“Like you do at that silly clinic?  All you are doing there is helping people that should be locked up in jail or who need to get off their butts and work and not take handouts!” her mother said with her nose in the air.  

Maybe a tiny bit of grease would splash up her nose.  Samantha giggled inwardly at the thought, and then felt bad because she didn’t want her mother to get hurt.  She just wanted her mother to not be so judgmental.  Her mother thought anyone not like her was bad…fat people…poor people…heaven forbid somebody dug a ditch or picked up trash for a living.  Then, of course, there was the color of skin and religious issue.  Her mother cheered for the whites and the Catholics. If the world were a baseball team, her mother would call the team the Caucasian Saints and St. Jude would be their mascot.  Samantha just cheered for the human race. 

Samantha put two pieces of chicken and a scoopful of potatoes on her plate.  “We help lots of people, Mom.  Everyone needs help sometime.” 

Her mother rolled her eyes, “Whatever,” and then motioned toward Samantha’s plate, “There are lots of delicious salad fixings in the refrigerator.” 

“Great, I’ll make a salad to go along with dinner.”  Samantha walked to the fridge and found the lettuce.  She knew what her mother was hinting toward, and purposely played dumb.  Her mother wanted her to eat salad and nothing else.  

“Since you are now watching your weight, I’m sure a salad will be plenty.”  Her mother made her own plate, and then glanced over at Samantha’s plate and shook her finger. “That fried chicken and mashed potatoes on your plate is about a million calories or more.” 

Samantha looked down.  She took her fork and removed a teeny tiny scoop of potatoes.  “Now I guess I have nine hundred.” 

“You can joke, but joking isn’t going to help get you out of the size eighteen clothes you are now in.  What were you six years ago…let me think…size six?” 

“Fine, Mom, I’ll eat just a salad.  I’d hate to embarrass you by gaining any more weight,” Samantha said with a touch of sarcasm and lots of truth.  She walked over to the sink and rinsed off her plate into the garbage disposal.