Happy Mother’s Day

Being a grown-up has a whole new set of rules that I’m still learning:

#5 — Pay your own damn rent/mortgage
#72 — Twizzlers and Diet Coke are a terrible lunch and one you probably shouldn’t make a habit of eating often.
#119 — You don’t need margarita numero tres. Seriously. No, you want it. There’s a difference.
#14 — Send your mother flowers on Mother’s Day.

I actually took #14 to heart and decided to send Mom a bouquet of roses.
I decide to send them early because, well…the floral industry is a racket and essentially wanted a pound of flesh for Saturday delivery.

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.

Jaime: Hey! Do you like the flowers?
Mom: Who is this?
Jaime: It’s your kid. Are the flowers pretty?
Mom: Flowers? How’d you know about that?
Jaime: Because I sent them to you! Didn’t you read the card?
Mom: No. (You can tell how often Mom gets flowers)
Jaime: Oh. Well, do you like them?
Mom: You shouldn’t have wasted your money!
Jaime: It’s for Mother’s Day.

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.


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