I’m struggling with what to get my mother for Mother’s Day. In fact I’ve already settled on a pathetic phone call saying, “Sorry I didn’t get you anything” because I know she’s obligated through the rules of the universe to still love me.
But my mother deserves so much more, definitely more than a weak apology for giving up on Mother’s day. I’ve tried thinking of nice cards - heartfelt, funny, or otherwise. Yes, there’s the, “Sorry for ruining your vagina… and your romantic life for at least the first 7 years of marriage.” But I feel like it’s been done.
I just feel the need to give her something great since she’s sacrificed so much for me, like sleep and money and probably all of her childhood dreams. Not to mention I should be calling her more often than Mother’s day and nights that I’m one Happy Hour Bud Light away from overdrafting.
I owe her so much. Things like gas money since she picks me up every time I come home and then don’t hang out with her. Instead I drink at a place called the British Beer Company, where the only thing authentically British is a Charles Dickens’ quote someone painted on the wall.
Anyway, these are things I’ve considered getting my mother this holiday:
Anyway, my mom works hard and sacrificed a lot to give me a life better than the average bear and (probably?) as good as the average American. She deserves everything I can’t give her and more love than I can.
I found this post in my drafts. I must have written it for V-day, but decided I didn’t like. I like it now. So, even though it’s belated, I hope you enjoy it.
7 Steps To Get Laid This Valentine’s Day
I hardly knew boobs existed until Chelsea Winters. Then I wanted to see every. single. one.
I was 10 years old in after school day care. I sat in a notoriously small school desk chair; the size in which only one adult butt cheek fits. It was so small Chelsea had to bend over to talk to me.
Chelsea was one of the daycare teachers. She was an older girl, about 18. And she had grown-up breasts. I won’t say big, but grown-up. She was the first woman I saw as a Woman, with a capital W.
I sat in my small chair and she bent over. Her loose yellow cardigan hung down at eye level. I saw it clear as day. Her teal bra. It was sexy. I didn’t know the word sexy back then, but damn was that thing sexy. I was mesmerized. She had handful-size breasts. Perfect, I thought, for the handful-sized boy I was. I was so overwhelmed I nearly fainted. I came to when she asked me, “Nathan? Nathan? Do you want an orange or an apple?” I don’t know how long I had been staring, but long enough for her to look aggravated. Then she put her hand over her chest.
”Uhh…” was all i could muster in response, “O-o-o-orange.”
Until that moment I didn’t know any other pleasure existed other than Game Boy. Chelsea changed my life.
I stayed home sick the next day. I’d like to say I faked sick, but who knows? I had a pit in my stomach. An ache in my heart. I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. It was all I could think of. What was this feeling? Heartbreak? PTSD? Now I’d call it a painful crush, but at 10-years-old…it was indescribable. That’s what crushes did, and still do, to me. If it doesn’t hurt, I say, you’re doing it wrong.
And this hurt. The image of her teal bra haunted me.
From then on, I wanted to see them all the time. I became an unintentional pervert. I tried to sneak a peek whenever I could. I was a kid. I hadn’t been taught how inappropriate it is to stare down women’s shirts, which is how I saw real life nipples when I was 12.
I was at summer camp. I had a crush on an older girl, Heather. She was 13, growing tall and gangly. Though we were one year apart, she was years ahead of me socially. Heather was a girl who thought she was a woman. She thought highly of herself and had an attitude to back it up. Ugh, teenage girls.
I was a pipsqueak. I was short with a high-pitched voice. I had no self-awareness and was generally obnoxious.
In any case, I treated Heather the way most 12-year-olds treat crushes. I poked her and made fun of her until she got mad. She got so mad, she up from her seat and yelled at me. One hand sat on her hip; the other hand flailed a pointed finger across the sky. She was being dramatic when she bent over to elaborate her point. Her spaghetti strap shirt practically opened itself to me. Her chest was an ocean and my eyes took a dive. My first, in-person nipples. I was in prepubescent heaven.
Then she caught me. She stopped her rant mid-sentence to exclaim, “He’s looking at my boobies!”
I froze. I went pale.
She said it again.
A counselor came over.
”Hey,” she tried calming Heather, “Alright, what’s the problem?”
”He was looking at my boobies.” She pointed at me, the accused.
The counselor looked at me. I was on the verge of tears. I was so embarrassed. I wasn’t doing anything wrong, I thought. I was only admiring.
”Nathan,” the counselor began, “You really shouldn’t look at girls like that.”
”Ok,” I managed.
”You, on the other hand,” the counselor turned to Heather, “You should probably wear a shirt that fits better. Your nipple’s hanging out.”
I looked again, forgetting what I just learned. It was.
I love boobs. And I concede that it’s impossible I’ll see every. single. one. But I’m thankful for the ones I’ve seen.
I’m not sure what to say to women like Chelsea and Heather. Maybe, Thank you. And, I’m sorry?
Come up with your own inside message for this card. I’ll make up an ACTUAL card for my favorite and send it to you in the ACTUAL mail.
Flop around on top of each other
Get drunk and make fun of poor people
Get high and watch Law and Order
See other people
I made for you all a little Christmas card.
The outside looks like this:
The inside looks like this:
AND GOD BLESS US! EVERY JUAN!
Print it, fold it, it’s your own Murray Christmas: