I don’t know
My mother died in 1988. She was a lifetime smoker and she had skinny legs and big boobs. She drank too much but was always sweet and loving, generous and kind at least to me. And she protected me from my dad’s anger, rage and frustrations as best she could.
I was the kind of kid who wore black tee-shirts and black jeans and would have loved to have owned and carried with me a hand-grenade disguised as something else, like a little bottle of something hidden in the wrap of my fingers and behind my body when I walked past women who perhaps unconsciously reminded me of my mother. I dunno. I know this is a stretch, but WTF it’s Mother’s Day tomorrow and I don’t know what else to say.
If my mother hadn’t been my mother, I think I’d have been quite attracted to her when she was still young and pretty and sitting in a fringy dress on a park bench, legs crossed, always smoking a Marlboro watching me pass by with my hidden grenade.
Families are an invention created to keep us from mating with the wrong partners, so that we don’t have kids with hugely increased chances of having hemophilia or flippers or monkey tails etc. Mating with our parents, experience taught us, was a bad idea. So you can’t do it unless you’re a super-charged holy daughter-humping zealot with your own magic reading of scriptures that somehow allows you to fuck anybody you want, anywhere, anytime you want (but this is a rant better served by waiting for Father’s Day.)
We aren’t super rare in this not screwing our kin thing as most mammals don’t mate with their parents. We and they are called mammals because we produce milk for our offspring from mammary glands (boobs). But other species who don’t follow bizarre religious doctrines, kick the babies out at a certain age and both the parents and the adult kids go their own ways, finding other members of their species with whom to mate. This is called nature and shit. You won’t find lions, chipmunks, white tailed deer or even horny canines, reaching out to their moms tomorrow, you just won’t.
We humans think we’re special. You go all the way back to Adam and Eve who had two sons (no females needed) who figured out some way to populate the entire planet except for Eden from where the fam had been banished to find the origins of this no-fucking-mom-or-dad rule. Seriously, just read the bible and you’ll find it in there somewhere. While you’re there, be sure and skim thorough Leviticus too, always both entertaining and instructive.
I refuse to celebrate family holidays that are made-up primarily or maybe singularly, for the Hallmark Greeting Card Co. to be able to sell expensive cards, and for full grown adults to act like groveling stupid children again. Happy Mother’s Day mom we’re making you French toast.
Most of the time I liked and loved my mother a lot and I still do, even though her smoking killed her at age 65 and it may have been genes inherited from her that gave me such a hankering for Scotch and Soda (even though she preferred martinis).
So, yeah, I guess happy fuckin’ mothers day and shit. Show your mommy how much you really care. A nice fruit basket oughta do the job.
Of course my attitudes towards Mother’s Day particularly, but all the other festive religious or quasi holy bullshit, is made less complicated by my mom having been dead for 34 years and by my belief that religious faith almost always does more harm than good in the world.
I tell you, sometimes I adore myself.