Holy Mother!

image courtesy of Hillstock Images

This past weekend was Mother's Day, a holiday I've long believed to be a sham. Nevertheless, I dutifully phone my mother, sent flowers to both mom and MIL and was just congratulating myself on a job well done when Bree reminded me that I didn't send Grandma any flowers.

"Isn't that my mother's job?"

"If it wasn't for her, you wouldn't be here," he said.

"Yeah? Well where were you with your sage advice when I was ordering the damn things?"

We celebrated the weekend by taking Bree's dad (the FIL) to Palm Springs, for a long overdue Xmas/birthday present. Palm Springs is the West Coast's answer to Florida, where old, rich, white people go to retire. It was two days filled with resort living, putting greens and dining where every food group had a similar, mysterious consistency (not much chewing required). I suspect She-Blob felt right at home.

Late Saturday evening, under cover of night, I slunk down to the swimming pool for a surreptitious swim. I had to utilize the bathing suit, come hell or high water, and so, like a nylon-clad manatee I plunked into the Marriott's pool and treaded water like a mad woman.

Come Sunday, I made a discovery. Apparently Mother's Day now applies to me as well. Kate called to wish me well, and I realized carrying She-Blob could be parlayed into something advantageous - namely, a bizarre, rubber chicken purse. Only in Palm Springs.

Returning home, Bree and I went out to dinner. Families gathered to eat, drink and celebrate all things "mom." At the end of our meal, the waitress came over with a bag of chocolates with a pretty bow. I could just imagine the conversation in the kitchen:

"Could we get some chocolates for the fat, knocked-up chick?"

Happy Mother's Day to me.