Mother’s Day

In honor of Mother’s Day, I’m doing the adult blogger version of the homemade card. My mom’s favorite blogs are my Wednesday water cooler random thoughts so here is a special Mother’s Day version just for her.

If a mother were to simply scoop all of the peanut butter from every PB&J sandwich that she had ever made for her kids into one bowl, would the squirrels bow down as if she was their queen?

Similarly, if you lined up all the macaroni ever used to make a Mother’s Day card, you could set up a transportation system for ants to rival The Tube in London.

The modern holiday of Mother’s Day was first celebrated in 1908, when Anna Jarvis held a memorial for her mother in Grafton, West Virginia. I’ll bet she wished she signed a royalty agreement with Hallmark.

OMG, my mother is soooo old-fashioned. She never got on a reality show or made a “homemade” pornographic film and she was pregnant with me when she was nineteen. (Thank you.)

I paid attention in high school, I understand the difference between men’s and women’s bodies but what accounts for the fact that a mom can change a diaper from the get go and a dad is a gagging machine?

What’s the difference between Italian mothers and other mothers? You don’t want to leave the dinner table.

If moms and dads changed places, would the moms have to take their work colleagues to strip clubs?

Italian mother walks into a bar, bartender says what can I get you. She says garlic, onions, tomatoes, I haven’t cooked in three hours.

One day soon I’m going to be really rich and get my mom a dozen of what she really wants…shoes.

Knock Knock

Who’s there?


Mother who?

Mother’s Day and all I get is a blog. You are so going to be digging in the garden when you visit this summer.


On This Day in History

For my mom on her birthday.

Something something years ago an Italian and a Pollack got together. Who knew? Back then that combination was about as rare and reviled by each ethnicity as say, a Republican getting together with one of those Middle East chicks that can’t uncover their face.

Anyways, these two touched fingers, same way my parents conceived me, and 42 minutes later out popped mom. That wasn’t her first name it just gives me the willies to call her by her first name; seems disrespectful at my something age. I’m not afraid of my age I’m just afraid that you’ll do the math and the aforementioned mom will get mad that I told her age.

So she did the things most kids do: the dishes, the laundry and all the cleaning. Her mom wasn’t super nice. But her Dad was cool and he taught her how to eat a big hunk of Italian bread with a stick of butter and not throw up.

Eventually she married this Norwegian dude who got lost skiing or whatever they do in that cold ass country. Then they did that finger thing – twice – and had two kids.

Then blah blah blah, they grew up, disappointed their parents by not touching fingers with another woman cause she would make an awesome grandmother. There’s still time. But mom was pacified by her ever planning of parties and the daunting task of topping last Year’s Halloween and Christmas decorations.

Meantime the present is when it matters and she’s a vibrant something something year old woman with an inquisitive mind, the cooking skills that would make Julia Child lose her silly accent and your mouth water and the love for her family and friends Gandhi would be jealous of.

So here’s to my mom. You rock.