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ABOUT ME

About me: I'm a 40-something mother to a pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our tween Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler Cam, and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). I'm a freelance graphic designer and writer.

Monday, May 12, 2008

Cheesy holiday

My first Mother’s Day. I have to admit—sadly—that I was anticipating some disappointment as far as gifts, accolades, sleep. Two days beforehand, the mother’s message board I sometimes visit had posted a “don’t expect too much” thread in which the mothers told each other what a great job they were doing, in case they didn’t hear it from anyone else on Mother’s Day.

I found that to be particularly discouraging.

What I also found to be ahem, disappointing was my husband’s stance on Mother’s Day. We mutually agree that Valentine’s Day is an evil holiday. Just as you wind down from the gross commercialism of Christmas you are barraged with more ads about how you must buy your loved one something to show you care.

But I was taken aback to find that he had similar feelings about Mother’s Day. How dare he!

“What if I don’t get you anything for Father’s Day?” I asked him. (And then pinched him.)

“That’s fine.”

“Hah! We’ll see.” (As much as I’d like to prove him wrong I already got him a present, jackass.)

The rest of the day proved to be interesting. After I slept until 9, we packed up the car and drove down to New Haven, aka civilization.

Halfway into our stroll around the city I walked into a convenience store to buy some water. Two minutes later I was stuck in the middle of a shoplifting heist. It ended well—the shoplifter was conciliatory and swore he would never steal cheese again. Why cheese?

After all that excitement we decided to hit the road and meet my mother at a restaurant along route one in Westbrook. We were starving. Apparently everyone else was too because unless you had a reservation you couldn’t get food: they had run out.

So, to recap…I slept until 9. Got a Mother’s Day card that was given out of some sense of commercial obligation. Was caught in a cheese bust. Went to a restaurant that advertised “Mother’s Day specials” but was told there was no food.

Thankfully there was liquor. And I did love dressing Junior in a shirt that said, “Mom” on it. He’s starting to fight—to assert his independence. I fear these days are numbered.

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