Your momma
It happened again and I was as disturbed as I was the first time. My hair was big and wild. I had cat sunglasses on, a black tank top, crops, and 3.5” espadrille wedges. I was semi-stylish and cute.
When I finished my transaction, the postal worker looked up and said, “Have a nice mother’s day.”
I grabbed my bag, jumped into my car, and pulled the rear view mirror over. No crow’s feet. No bleeding lipstick. No age spots on my chest or hands. Most importantly, no spit up on my shirt.
Do I look like a fucking mother to you? Why don’t people take caution with the well wishes? I would have been less offended if she had just wished me a happy kwanza.
I am conscientiously single and childless. This means I can sleep late, sleep around, take trips to family unfriendly destinations, drive a 2-seater car, and buy beer instead of diapers. Oh, and I don’t have to hide my porn or my vibrators.
I’m the mother of freedom, the mother of creativity, and the mother of self-exploration. Where’s my fake, Hallmark holiday?