I’ve not always been particularly prolific in gift giving around Mother’s Day. I mean, I get the point of it. But frankly – dedicating a single day to motherhood is a travesty in and of itself. But moms look forward to it. Especially my mom.

Last Mother’s Day, Radiohead decided to grace Northern Virginia with their presence for the first time in for-fucking-ever. I’m sure it goes without saying that I went to this concert. And by “went” I really mean “left my mom at 1pm to go drive out to Bumblefuck, Egypt, wait for hours on end to score premium tickets in a torrential downpour, enjoyed a concert that absolutely BLEW my mind, got stuck in parking lot traffic for 2.5 hours, afterwhich I had an accident on the way home.”

I’m obviously a phenomenal daughter.

What I’d wanted to do then was get her a puppy. Or a kitten. Or something alive and breathing that WASN’T ME. Because believe me – that woman needs it. 

But as mentioned above, Radiohead came first. I mean. Duh.com.

So then her birthday rolled around and I did months and months and months of research and preparation for a puppy. I eventually decided against a lil’ doggy because they require about 10,000 times more care than a lil’ kitty. And more importantly, my momma’s a cat person.

She. Loves. Them. A. Lot.

And she’s been talking about getting a kitty for-fucking-ever. 

Christmas rolls around and because I have to buy lots of things for lots of people, I depleted my bank account too quickly to run with the idea. Aside from that, I was turning 27 the day after and it’s obviously All About Me anyway. So yeah. 

No kitty.

Well, this time around I got my shit together. I planned and planned and planned and then planned some more. I schemed with her best friends. I went nuts buying kitty supplies, etcetera and all of the above.

I also planned an entire surprise brunch in which two of her friends, who are also single moms, would come over and enjoy the New Kittys and the Free Food! Free food that I slaved over for seven motherfucking hours. I’m talking breakfast burritos, home fries made the RIGHT way, bacon, fresh biscuits, a fruit spread and made-to-order omelets. Oh, and a fucking cake. Because coffee time would eventually roll around and they’d want cake for that.

Low and behold, there were slight complications with getting the kittens last weekend so I had to present my mom with a Mother’s Day card explaining the situation. Then I grabbed all the items I bought in preparation for the new arrivals and thought – YES – I am the best daughter EVER.

Except the second she realized what was going on, her face fell to the fucking floor and she made it abundantly clear that she actually DIDN’T want them despite fucking talking about having live animals in the house for the past four fucking years.

Ok. Fine. If everything pans out with the kitty’s health, then they’ll just be mine instead. I had already expected and planned on taking care of everything from A-Z anyway.

And sure. I was pissed to high heaven because my mother is the most indecisive, overthinking, overrationalizing and pessimistic (she claims “realistic”) person that I absolutely HAVE to deal with. I’m talking about a woman who will plan on purchasing a new house for over a year, get said house with every requirement she wants and needs, then moves into her house only to look at all the other houses still on the market in a great effort to DRIVE HERSELF MAD WITH DOUBT OVER HER PURCHASE.

After simmering for a bit, I took a few steps back, recollected my thoughts, made my decision and figured “hey – at least the brunch was a surprise, right?”

Wrong.

It actually WAS a surprise but for fuck’s sake the woman just had to complain about how long it was taking. I was a one-woman army in a kitchen surrounded by Crazy German Mothers and she fucking complains about the time. And THEN when we finally DO get to eat she’s shootin’ the shit on the couch and not really moving towards the table. And THEN she has the audacity to say, “hey – just a suggestion. but next time, maybe don’t do so much?” as she shrugs her shoulders and goes to grab the ringing phone. While we were eating. After she complained for two hours about being hungry. 

Yanno what my brother did? He drunk dialed her at 6am EST (otherwise known as 3am PST) with some incoherent voicemail and it’s a fucking hit. 

A HIT!

So. Next year? She’s getting a text message from me.

Done and done.

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