SORT OF MEDIUM

Because today was Mothers Day, it was quiet and peaceful. Years ago when I still worked at a restaurant part time it was like being in the trenches during war. People are very protective of their old maternals for one day of the year, and start to slaughters strangers at random if momma's soup is not just perfectly bland yet salty. They told the waiter! And they're stressed out because despite doing laundry and scrubbing the plates for once in their life they are still a horrible disappointment! They should have become a doctor! They'd be married now! "Where are the grandkids I expected?" She wails despairingly at the next table over.

Their cousin Vinnie is an architect who owns real-estate and has fifteen kids!

But my day was peaceful. No bloodshed.

No mothers.

Instead, there was calm pipe smoke like you could have expected if your mom had married that dashing Latin scholar and gone on to get her degree in ancient Greek sexual practices like she intended. You'd have been born ten years later, when she heard her biological clock ticking over the ruckus of academia. And you'd have a tattoo just like hers, except the text would read "Iulia Agrippina", in homage to ambitious women. You wouldn't know how inappropriate that was.

I rather enjoyed the peace and quiet.

People told me that till about five o'clock traffic into the city was absolutely horrendous, because there is nothing good to eat in Marin, not an edible crumb anywhere that's 'mom-appropriate'. By the time I was in a bus crossing the Golden Gate it was still slow, because some mothers are actually late owls and stay up all night, or their idiot only son couldn't get a reservation for the cocktail hour and started drinking early. Nothing says Mothers Day quite like being sweaty and vomitously blotto on cheap champagne by early afternoon.
After a long morning of fixxing the washer because you overloaded it.
Suds everywhere!

Not being in any way involved in the festivities, I had a good day.


I'm proposing that for Fathers Day next month, wives and daughters fix the power mower and the outdoor grill. A few sharp blows with a hammer ought to do it. And feed him breakfast in bed, perhaps a well-done steak, side of broccoli, and a can of Coors Light.
He might not understand the delicious irony.
But you will.



They are ridiculous holidays.
Quite loathsesome.




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