Tuesday, May 13, 2008

For Momma

I am what some might call, "a self-important, indulgent douchebag." The kind of person you might meet at a party and wonder to yourself, "what poor woman gave birth to that fellow?" My mother, that's who. In honor of Mother's Day (which was Sunday, but whatevs), I salute that lovely woman who bore me, me muver.

This year work obligations prevented me from heading home to the Garrigan Compound to wish Mommy a Happy Mother's Day in person. In light of my absence I offered her a myriad of rewards for her contributions to Greatness™: an amazing flying pig hat (with real flapping wing action), a relaxing Crisco rub down, or a helpful / easy to come by Asian baby. All of these gifts were rebuffed, and her reply was the same as it always is when I offer to give her a gift:

"Just write me a story."

To which I flatly replied, "no."

How could I refuse me own mother on this, the day for mothers -Mother's Day?!!! It's not like I don't have material to write about.

I might begin my story when I was 5, telling the tale of a busy woman, who despite the demands of raising three kids, and ensuring that my sweater vest/oxford button down/tie outfits were properly starched, still took 20 - 45 minutes (depending on my degree of constipation) to sit on the ledge of the bath tub and discuss current events to an easily bored and attention-demanding, Young Master Garrigan.

Or perhaps I could fast forward to age 7, and launch into the yarn about the time when I sat at the piano bench and played my lessons to an appreciative madre, only to cut them short and ask, "what is a homo?" And tell how we then engaged in a tactful discourse on sexual relations. Upon the conclusion of which I replied, "do I have to put my thing in her?"

One chapter should recount the narrative of a high school freshman, who unfortunately began to adopt a crap British accent after being driven by his mother an hour each way to voice lessons while listening to the musical stylings of one genius, Michael Crawford.

For a moment, I might even take breather from talking about myself to chronicle the bombastic volume of my mother's farts. The likes of which I could not come close to if I had a police megaphone (I've tried and have pictures), or the incredible cuteness when she sheepishly chirps,"excuse me."

I could write volumes of emotionally lyrical short stories about how when major relationships fell apart I would cry once -and the only person I would to cry to was Mom. And the fact that I felt wholly vindicated when she would conclude, "it just wasn't right, you'll find what you're looking for."

One of my fables would definitely include the good humor of a woman who will let me rant when my lovely, well-intentioned, grandmother would forward on e-mails to me about how Barack Obama is an al Qaeda operative cleverly concocting to topple U.S. from within or that Mexicans are stealing those highly-sought-after dishwashing and bus boy jobs from hard-working Americans.

The LAST story I'd ever write would outline a mother who always advised, "be a garbage man if you want, just be the best garbage man you can be;" and then go on to delight in how throughout growing up this same lady tolerated (and was probably secretly amused / proud of) my unearned sense of entitlement, and unwaveringly told me to keep writing, keep performing, and do whatever it was that made me my best me.

I mean, I guess I could write all that shit, but who'd want to read that? I think I'm going to get her the pig hat instead.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom.

1 comment:

rdsmgb said...

Very good, lad. It's about damn time. Ok so this weekend. It's on. Fri?


Related Posts with Thumbnails