A Dearth of Awesomeness
I have been angry for six weeks. That's the period of time in which we are typically bombarded with Hallmark card, jewelry, chocolate and flower delivery commercials.
I don't want a card. Talk is cheap but cards are not. I find it ridiculous to pay five dollars for some schlocky sentiment and a hastily scribbled signature. I can do that myself. See? Dear you, You are terriffic. I like you. I may get angry and say things I don't mean like the other day when I called you a hopeless calorie whore for eating four of those dutch caramel wafers, but that doesn't change how I feel about you. Well, maybe sometimes. But most of the time I really like you and think you're terriffic. Love yourself. Love, Yourself.
Geez, I should be getting paid for my Hallmakr skillz.
I don't want jewelry, particularly not jewelry that looks like boobs and a butt. "Open Heart Collection" sounds far more sophisticated than "Boobs and Butt Collection" but it is what it is. If calling myself by another name would confer upon me the desirable attributes that I wish to posess, I would call myself Princess Beautimous Eternally Youthful of the Fabulously Rich clan. But I would still be middle aged, middle class, with a muffin top, crows feet, and chin hair that proliferates far too quickly. And also, curiously, seems to be invisible until it is at least four inches long.
I don't want Chocolate. I work for Weight Watchers for fuck's sake. I get two pounds leeway. I can gain two pounds just thinking about chocolate, three by looking at it, four by smelling it, five if I consider eating it, and if I actually eat it? I have to start doing that thing where you loop a rubber band through the button hole on your jeans to make them sitting down pants again.
I don't want flowers. They die. It's insane to spend $100 dollars on stuff that dies. Or poops. But that's another post for another day.
You know what I liked? Those little flower pots with the fingerprint lady bugs on them. Hunks of lumpy plaster with misshapen hand imprints. Bookmarks adorned with foam flowers sporting toothless photo centers. Wonderful, horrible poems written in carefully constructed capital letters on dash lined paper. Clusters of weeds in a dixie cup.
And having a Mom. I really liked having a Mom.
And now I don't and it sucks.
So pardon me if I don't respond to all your "My Mom is Awesome" posts. It's nothing personal. I'm sure your Moms are awesome. But acknowledging your Moms' awesomeness hurts me in a way I find difficult to put into words. Most of the time, I can ignore the lack of motherly awesomeness in my life. But all the relentless awesomemongering forces me to think about how awesome my Mom was and how she's not able to be awesome anymore and how much I took her awesomeness for granted while she was here and how I'll now never be able to express to her how much her awesomeness shaped my life.
Sometimes it's just easier to be angry.
So I am.
I should be over it by Father's Day.