So, Thursday morning rolls around and I spent all morning, frantically checking my email. Finally, I recieved confirmation that my flowers have been delivered and signed for by an L. Lucci. Apparently, this is what Mom’s signature says in Fed-Ex-ese.
So, I give her a call to make sure everything is copacetic.
Mom: That happens every year!
My mom, ladies and gentlemen. The last bastion of practicality in a world gone mad.
Despite her complaints, I think she really did like the flowers. I think. I hope. Probably.
Mom — you deserve a small island in the South Pacific, complete with monkey butlers but instead you got us — three smartasses who are essentially useless without you. Sorry.
So, to my mother — the kindest person I know, a culinary bad-ass, possessor of one of the most wicked and wry senses of humor I’ve ever encountered and human being with a heart so damn big, it could crush this town — If I’m a tenth of the person you are, I will consider myself a huge success. Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. I love you.