Category Archives: Who’s Lovin Your Mama

When to Opt-Out of Thanksgiving

It’s relatively well known that I got engaged a week after my parents split up. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to plan a wedding OR had your family break apart, but I would advise against experiencing both in tandem.** My job was also at an all-time low. We are talking peak stress five days a week.

For the first six months of this strange new world, my brain seemed to shut down. I had a hard time remembering things. There are dinners I went to with people whose names and faces I can’t recall. There were meetings I forgot I attended within 24 hours of attending them. When I wasn’t forgetting things, I was fretting that I had some sort of early on-set Alzheimer’s. I may not have appeared to be a hot mess, but a hot mess I was.

Which is probably why I’ve never told this awesome story from the first Thanksgiving without both of my parents.

My parents separated in July 2009, and by November, they were still living in our house together. A couple weeks before Thanksgiving, my dad had had it.

“I just want to let you know that I’m moving out,” my dad said to me over the phone. “I am still trying to figure some things out with your mother, but I’ve just come to the conclusion that I can’t live like this.”

We’re either together, or we’re not is what I heard, and I didn’t blame him. He had an apartment and would be moving into it two weeks before Thanksgiving.

When I asked my mom what our holiday plans were, she quipped that they’d be the same as always — my aunt, uncle, cousins, their kids and my aging grandparents all staying at our house. My brother, my dad and I were disheartened. I think were hoping to find a way to work through the first Thanksgiving apart, together.

But on we trudged. And we were low on drama until the day after Thanksgiving. I walked into our house after dinner with D’s family to nobody talking to each other.

“Uh, hi. What’s up?”

My mom topped off her wine glass and led me out of the kitchen and into the home office. She looked like she’d just done battle.

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All In The Family

One day during my trip to Iowa, my mom and I drove across town to do some shopping. I was feeling generally unenthused about my hangover when, from the driver’s seat, my mom said:

“Have you ever had a bra that made your nipples itch?”
“Wow. No. Just…no.”
“Well this one does. I don’t know what the problem is, it’s from Victoria’s Secret. It’s just…so…itchy.”
“Ah, God,” I said pressing my ponytail into the head rest.
“Oh. That’s too much information.”
“Maybe, yeah. Just throw it away.”

Hoping the undergarments discussion was far behind us, later that weekend I experienced a small crisis as I got ready for my good friend’s wedding. Ella, it seemed, had chewed through, well, the only g-string I brought. And there was no way I could wear anything else with the dress.

“Hmm. You could go commando?” My mom suggested as I shrieked at Ella, who was looking coolly at me like, “Look, Holmes. You drove my ass all the way to Iowa in the middle of summer. What did you honestly expect?”
“Absolutely not. That didn’t end well last time.”
“Well,” she said, disappearing into her room, “I haven’t worn these yet.”

She came out and threw a scandalous pair of undies at me, similar to the ones Ella had for breakfast, only with…jewels. And things spelled in French.

What could I do? I wore the underwear. Which later spawned this drunken conversation in the ladies’ room:

“My underwear are bejeweled. And French.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. They’re my mom’s.”

Hey, Momma

Moms rule. Especially mine. But I’ll admit bias here, you know, since she carried me around for nine months, birthed me, did the single mom thing for a bit, made good choices (high five on Dad and siblings!), protected me, put up with me during unruly hellacious teenage years, bailed me out, made me own up, assured me, worked on having a friendship with me, fed me drinks before meeting D’s parents for the first time (frickin’ sweet!), drove through a blizzard to spend Christmas in Denver with me, was proud of me, etc., etc., etc.

For all the moms in the place with style and grace—we love ya. Call ’em if you got ’em, y’all.

Hey, Momma

Moms rule. Especially mine. But I’ll admit bias here, you know, since she carried me around for nine months, birthed me, did the single mom thing for a bit, made good choices (high five on Dad and siblings!), protected me, put up with me during unruly hellacious teenage years, bailed me out, made me own up, assured me, worked on having a friendship with me, fed me drinks before meeting D’s parents for the first time (frickin’ sweet!), drove through a blizzard to spend Christmas in Denver with me, was proud of me, etc., etc., etc.

For all the moms in the place with style and grace—we love ya. Call ’em if you got ’em, y’all.

Yeah, That’d be Nice

“Today’s one of those days where you just want to sit, drink a cold beer, and watch the good looking guys ride by on their motorcycles.”

–My mom, on the unseasonably warm weather in Iowa and Colorado

(I whole-heartedly concur.)

Yeah, That’d be Nice

“Today’s one of those days where you just want to sit, drink a cold beer, and watch the good looking guys ride by on their motorcycles.”

–My mom, on the unseasonably warm weather in Iowa and Colorado

(I whole-heartedly concur.)

Who’s Lovin’ Your Mama?

Who’s lovin’ your mama? [Pukes a little in mouth]