An Ode to a Wardrobe With a Black and White Janis Joplin Postcard in the Mirror

I purposely left out one of the best parts of Saturday night in the last post because I didn't want to spoil a good opening for this one. After I left Jessie's house, I decided to walk to Charles St. station to catch the Red Line directly. It's a bit longer of a walk, and as I looked at my phone to time my journey for fun, I realized it was 12:01. Mother's Day had begun.

Mother's Day carries a lot of baggage with it this year, as I have barely seen my mother at all this year, and it's not looking like I'll be seeing her any time soon. Mothers can be as delicate as a Rose or as harsh as a crow bar smashing through a window in a mad attempt at severe bodily injury. They're crucial, influential, and even godlike when looked at through the eyes of a completely helpless, dependent infant.

My mother is the sun in my solar system. I have her to thank for being brought into this world. After all, she allowed those doctors to slice her lower abdomen open and invade her womb with rubber gloves and clamps. All of this she allowed so that I could walk around and kiss boys and dance and play Nintendo Wii and rock out with my cock out and answer the phone and play on stage and even write in this blog. Gee, ma. Thanks!

My childhood was awesome. No pops, just a street wise Mom and a coddling Grams. Pops actually wanted to slit my little fetus' throat. But my mom knew better. She told me this story: Months prior to her getting pregnant with me, she bought a little decorative wand at a new age store. When she was at the counter, the hippied-out cashier said, "Now you know what you're supposed to do with this, right?" My mom cluelessly replied no and the cashier continued, "Well, all you gotta do is put this under your pillow after saying a prayer to it with a wish. It's supposed to manifest into reality if you keep it under your pillow." That night, she prayed to the wand and God, "Please, God. Send me the man of my dreams."

"And that man, I believe, was you," She would tell me. I would questioningly reply, "What about when you had to change your sheets? How did you keep the wand under your pillow?" Fucking kids...

My mom had cleaned up her life and was ready for something like me to show the world to. I was willing and enthusiastic. She was more than my mom, she was my teacher, my partner. She taught me empathy--to put myself in others' shoes. She took me to every tap/jazz class, every piano lesson, every tee ball practice (until I split my head open in one of the dugouts and had to get 4 staples in my skull), every soccer practice, every hockey practice, every dive team practice and every rehearsal so that I could figure out what I liked. She put up with Ali and Max and I trashing every room we were left alone in and continually causing trouble well into our preteens. She ordered us a pizza from Papa John's every Friday night and ate it even though she hated pizza. All she had to do was love me, but she did so much more.

Into my teen years, she cried and asked "what am I supposed to do?" when she caught me sneaking out of the house at night to hook up with the Floridian Flavor of the Week instead of screaming at me and belittling me and punishing me. I told her what to do: "Scream at me! Belittle me! Punish me!" She couldn't, of course, and we talked instead. Now I rely on her for my relationship advice. I mean the woman's been around the block, she knows what's up. She has picked out and bought almost my entire wardrobe. She's got great taste.

Most of all, though, she instilled in me the desire to pass on the torch. She has put a flame of inspiration in me and I have utilized it every day of my life. Every book I read is because of that flame. I will one day have a child of my own to pass on everything my mother showed me plus my addition, and so on and so on, until perhaps it is my family name that finally meets the Nietzsche-coined ubermensch. Thanks for that, Mom, and I won't let you down.

Happy day-after-Mother's-Day everyone. No matter where your moms are, I'm sure they're loving you as much as they did when they were warming you against their soft bosom. And remember that flame. Everybody's mother has given one to her child, and it contains a piece of her heart so that she'll always be with them.


P.S. I know some of this shit is super-cornerific, but Fuck You it's for Mother's Day.

Thanks Hallmark, for designating a day I'm supposed to ruminate on such a great subject.

Be safe.