Mom, Don't Read This One, OK?

I've always prided myself on being an extremely self-aware person ("self-aware"= narcissistic only child). However, I have extreme difficulty writing about matters close to my heart. Matters that make me feel sensations other than hungry, tired, or gassy.

The Queen of All Matters Of the Heart is my mother. A woman that I so closely resemble in appearance, manner, and ethic that it's near impossible to find any objectivity when talking about this woman. She and I are the symbolic definition of the greatest "Awkward Family Photo". The fact that no clothing synchronized photo of us running through a florous ravine exists is surprising and disappointing.

(not my Mother and I or anyone that I know or care to know)

Mom, this post may be addressed to you, but I was serious about you not reading it.
I know you'll call me later after seeing this on Facebook and say, "I saw that you wrote a post about me...." and there will be an awkward moment of silence, then I'll have to explain that it's actually a very nice essay about you, but it may contain swear words and exaggerated truths that I don't think you're ready to hear. And I don't want to have to do that.

So this letter below is to you, Mom. The Joan Crawford to my Christina. The Big Edie to my Little Edie.

But don't read it.

DON'T!

Mom, this post is insanely difficult to write. Thanks a lot.
I've been staring at the computer screen whining and awkwardly playing with various flabs of skin trying to come up with something. What do I say? That I've completely taken for granted the emotional and monetary support that you have given me my whole life? That though I know I'm a good daughter, I still feel there are not enough words in the world to adequately thank you for the sacrifices that you made and the struggles that you faced in order to make sure I had an absolutely perfect childhood? How do I apologize for getting mad at you when you cramped on Dad's "Good Time Dad" style when in actuality you were making sure that neither he or I ended up dead in a ditch from some adventure-seeking experiment gone awry? How do I thank you for being my number one fan? The person who encouraged me to wear bow ties and suspenders in 8th grade, though everyone in school called me "a dyke". The person who told me it was ok to be different and don't let anyone make you feel bad about it. How am I able to thank you for the woman you made me today? A slightly neurotic one, but still a club where I would definitely have me as a member nonetheless.

I know we've had our ups and downs, but it's mostly been a smooth ride due to your unwavering releasement of the Jewish quilt trips. You may have kept me in line with that ploy as a child, but my therapist said it was ok to let you know when you're being ridiculous. And no, calling you ridiculous does not mean that I think you're "stupid". There you go again.

Please bear with me during this time of twenty-something lament where I talk about me all the time and don't ask you about your day. You know that I love talking to you, but we also need to get you out of that one horse town so we can have conversations that aren't twenty minutes of waxing poetic on the new Super Wal-mart in town. You're way too big for this World, Mom. You deserve better than Super Wal-Marts and towns where their claim to fame is being the #1 most incestuous city in New York state.

You deserve bigger. You deserve brighter. You deserve passion and love and goodness and everything in between. It's time to leave home and start living. Sixty is never too late. I may just be going out into the world, but so are you. Let's fucking rock this joint, huh?

Oodles and Pickles,

L