Okay, campers, I love my Mom, but that doesn’t make the guys over at Hallmark NOT jerks. They’re probably having a big champagne brunch right now, celebrating the day back in 1914 when President Woodrow (Woody) Wilson made Mother’s Day official. Even the founder of Mother’s Day, Anne Jarvis (an incredibly sappy woman who wrote potentially the weeniest document in U.S. History “Mother’s Day Proclamation 1870″) regretted the commercialism of the holiday by the 1920’s. She died in 1948 full of regret and shame, which is probably just about right.
Here’s the problem with Hallmark — they use the collective guilt of the zeitgeist as a marketing tool. And here’s the problem with us, WE LET THEM. Doesn’t it devalue a mommy’s contribution to the world if the only reason we celebrate them is because a greedy, nasty, and (probably the worst sin) BORING maker of craptastic crap forces us to? Also, is a bunch of carnations (colored if your mother is alive, white if she’s dead) and a card with some sickly looking rose and a sicklier poem on it appropriate compensation for a woman who routinely scrubs the skid marks out of our underpants? I didn’t think so. What all moms need for mother’s day is a BETTER skid mark scrubber. Flowers are just dead plant sex organs, a new and improved skid mark scrubber will HELP your Mom year round.
All that being said, I, too heard the salacious greeting card company whispers in the night. “You don’t love your Mother. You have to at least get her a card….buy… buy…buy…our… our…our… dumb…dumb… dumb… cards…cards…cards… ” I succumbed. I made my Mother a card. Here’s what she got:
See, all you Moms out there who have gotten white carnations even though you’re PRETTY SURE you’re still alive — things could be worse. You could have a kid like me.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. In honor of “your day” I officially, probably forgive you for NEVER CUTTING THE CRUSTS OFF OF MY BREAD EVEN THOUGH ALL THE OTHER KIDS GOT THEIR CRUSTS CUT OFF, and for lying to me about the crusts being the most nutritious part of the sandwich (a falsehood that I didn’t catch her in until I was thirty). I still, however, reserve the right to make jokes about it.
And as a special treat — here’s my favorite picture of the Rev and me: