To my mother

Cliches of all cliches, of course I just had to make a mothers’ day post.  Hahaha.

A lot of people repeatedly say that I look like my mother.  But that’s probably the only thing we have in common.  She’s a math person, I am not.  She’s neat and tidy, I am not.  She does not trust cabs, I can practically run a franchise.  We have almost absolutely nothing in common.

I take a lot after my dad, from the positives to the negatives.  I think that’s why my mother and I are pretty close.  It was because of my dad.  Much like a thief hating the existence of another thief, she makes sure that my father and I understand each other, at the risk of me misunderstanding her.  Which is often the case.  It’s not ideal, but I think she knew that being the only daughter, my relationship with my father has to be built on rock solid foundation.

And that is her.  I don’t think I would have appreciated my father if it weren’t for her constant reminder that it was the both of them that constantly brag about me and my achievements, from the most minute to the biggest.  If it weren’t for her, I would have rebelled so much in my youth (but this is not a complete admission that I am fucking old) to the point of self-destruction.  I got that from my father; we both have the ability to self-detonate.

But my mother held us together.  That one is for sure.

She still hates that I swear.  And that my skirts are too short.  And my dresses are too frilly.  My pants too tight.  That I color my hair in the most outrageous shades by her standards (red, copper, blonde).  That I shop too much.  That I eat out too much.

But if I want a night of pure talking — both gossip and fact — about the future, about the news, basically about anything under the sun, without judgment or prejudice or bias, over a good meal and maybe a movie — definitely over dessert after whatever we do — my default companion will always be my mother.


Happy Mothers’ Day.


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