A Mothers' Day Adventure

“Just another Hallmark Holiday,”
Said the mother, disdaining her day.
“Do I want a sappy card, or smelly flowers?
To eat soggy brunch, on this crisp Sunday?”

But we thought – oh, she’s joking
Of course she wants our canned thanks
Our mandated praise – or maybe some Spanx!

“I’m not that kind of mummy!
My thighs are still slim!
And so is my tummy…
I’d rather be swimming laps at the gym!”

“But love it she must!
She gave birth and raised us
So she needs soggy eggs benedict
(And maybe a visit with Jaysus)”

So we tricked her with a ruse:
A boat in need of painting
Some bright work to be done
A Hinckley in need of saving!

But Mum got suspicious
When she saw the biddy-mommies in hats
Clutching giftbags stuffed with books:
Mysteries solved by cats!*

But near the café, right on the water
For jazz brunch, such a beautiful vista!
Sailed a tall-masted schooner, oh infamous ship
Steered by deadly pirates – ‘twas The Rebelista!

And swift as a sailfish swimming away
Mom flicked off her flip-flops
And bounded into the bay!

Swimming so rapidly
(those workouts really paid off!)
She made for the Rebelista
While flipping us off

“So long, fare thee well,
great bourgeois world,
I’ve had enough of this hell
And I’ll near wear heals and pearls!

Guess we shouldn’t be surprised
Mum never was conventional
But did she always wear that eyepatch?
And we never found it mentionable?


*Contrary to what my husband thinks, there really is a whole class of books that feature mysteries solved by cats. In the image shown above, the mystery actually appears to be co-authored by a cat!

My friend

I have a friend. She's not a great friend, but I like her well enough and she brings me home-baked goods. She's a work friend.

But my friend brings out the worst in me. Maybe it's her privileged rich girl background paired with her strongly idealistic streak, but she just gets under my skin. Sometimes it's tough to like a pampered, Vegan, politically correct person. Whatever the case, I say terrible, terrible things to her.

The worst thing I've said to her -- and possibly to anyone, ever -- is, "Your foster child is going to burn down your house. With you in it." We weren't even in a fight. I just said that and smiled. The smile was meant to convey that I was kidding, but I'm pretty sure it just came off serial killer-ish.

Now, I'm not going to excuse that comment. But maybe if I explain the conversation that preceded the comment, you won't hate me quite as much. Right now, it's probably not looking good, though, is it?

Here's the story. My friend came to visit me in my office while I was shopping on Amazon. I said, "Oops, you caught me shopping at work. It's an emergency; I've been procrastinating on buying my nephew a Christmas gift and now I HAVE to do it to get it there on time." To which my friend replied, "Is he starving? Living in a shack?" (Obviously not. I'm not sending food, I'm sending a dinosaur. One that farts, incidentally.) Seeing my confusion, my friend explained, "Well, it's just material things. They're kind of icky and I don't like them." Since that didn't really merit an answer, I just stared and she continued.

"Maybe you should send him a picture. Of starving kids in Darfur." I stared, incredulously, and asked "To a five-year-old? I'm pretty sure he wouldn't understand." To which my friend said, "When I have a child -- no, wait, a foster child -- I'm not going to give him toys as presents. I'm going to teach him about how poor people live."

And that's when The Comment happened. Even my husband, who really, really dislikes this person, was shocked. Please consider the comments section here a poll. You can vote: Am I going to hell, Purgatory, or just North Dakota?

Missing Mardi Gras

Mardi Gras day in the Garden District. Doesn't look like you expected, does it? For locals, Mardi Gras isn't about excessive drinking, Bourbon Street, or even boobs.



I dated a guy when I first lived in New Orleans who told me that Mardi Gras was his Christmas, New Year's and Fourth of July all rolled up into one. I thought that was ridiculous. Now, I realize he was understating the case.

Food

It's never hard to write about food. Well except maybe in Washington, DC, where after you sum up the whole restaurant scene - trendy, overpriced, and lacking in substance just about covers it - you have nothing left for your next post.

Rescue Dogs and Marketing Genuises

Yes, of course you're right. There are too many dogs in shelters, and I probably should've adopted one of them. Instead, I got a perfect purebred golden retriever puppy. The dog I dreamed of since I was a little girl, only more beautiful and sweet than I ever imagined.

But you went to the shelter and adopted a mutt. It wasn't that long ago that adopted dogs were called "shelter dogs" or even (the horror) "pound dogs." But now you call your dog a "rescue dog" (and usually in a loud, snide voice).

Little known fact: a tiny piece of the good karma you earned by adopting your pet disappears every time you utter the phrase "rescue dog." Why? Because the karma gods realize that you're a big pain-in-the-ass phony. The implication isn't subtle: adopting a "rescue dog" means you're a "rescuer," AKA hero. And calling yourself a hero is just icky.

You know who is a real hero? Someone who adopts an older child or fosters a messed up kid or two. But I've never, not once, heard someone call a foster child a "rescue kid." But I have to admit, this re-branding of shelter dogs into rescues is pure marketing genius. Because let's face it, you were probably thinking overbred teacup yorkie before the whole hero thing went to your head, weren't you?

So how about we strike a deal? You stop sneering when you see my dog with his gorgeous fur and lack of emotional baggage. And I promise to look at a golden retriever shelter when I get another dog, if the prospect of overreaching pet contracts and home inspections to determine my pet-worthiness doesn't piss me off too much.

Plus, I'll try very hard to refrain from pointing out your hypocrisy when you have your own children, when there are already so many kids waiting around in pounds, er, I mean "residential facilities."