Don't Mince Words

This guy, let’s call him my boyfriend, asked a very difficult question recently. “So, when are you going to write about me?” I gave my standard response, “I only write about bizarre LA dates and people that screw up. I actually like you.”

I’m not sure if his ego kicked in, or if he wanted to provide input on my blog genre. “But don’t you want to let women out there know there IS hope?” he asked.

Oh, I know there’s hope out there. For me, it usually comes from Toys in Babeland. This guy has managed to survive two cycles with me. If he can make it four seasons, then that’s something to write about.

I’m hopeful.

For many today is a day scarier that watching a son get circumcised. More perplexing than knowing your daughter does drugs and more horrific than wondering if you should do anything for your partner for Valentine’s Day.

Mother’s day incites fear in most. What do you get the woman who says she has everything? Or is she the woman you can never please? Perhaps your mother is perfect, but a sampling of my friends’ opinions is probably statistically significant enough to back up the following hypothesis:

We all hate mother’s day.

One friend called her sister to find out where her mom was and discovered she was out. “Oh, good. I’ll call now and leave a message. I won’t have to actually talk to her.”

Another friend stated, “why do I have to acknowledge a woman who continues to provide me regular intervals of grief… at my age.”

“My mom is OK. I just wish she’d get a boyfriend so she would leave me alone,” said another friend.

Another friend declared he could probably become a professional hostage negotiator after his interchanges with his mother.

Many years ago I went to my father holding some of my babysitting money and asked him what we should get mom for mother’s day. His response was classic.

“I don’t know. She’s not my mother.”

That was the beginning of my age of enlightenment. Mother’s day never got easier after that.