My Mom Could Kick Your Mom's Ass

But she wouldn't because she's a classy lady. Except when it comes to her kids. If you fuck with one of her kids, she'll lay the Camden Smackdown on you and let me tell you, you don't want that. This means you better be really nice to me, or I'm telling my mom!

In honor of my mom's 56th birthday, which is today, and also Mother's Day, which is tomorrow, I am dedicating this post to my mom. I might actually let her read it under my supervision. I know she doesn't really understand why I don't let her read this blog. I know she'd like it, but you know...she's my mom and some of the stuff I write about...well, ew. I mean, I never let her give me the Birds and the Bees talk. Why would I let her read something where I talk incessantly about Me Time and penises?

I also don't want to make this too lengthy. I could go on forever about all the cool shit in my life for which my mother has been directly responsible. I could talk about my Surprise 16th Birthday Party, or how she came to almost every Marching Band practice/show, no matter the weather or distance - for the entire three years I was involved. I could tell you how the drum majors wouldn't start the show until her lone voice rose up from the crowd with a word of encouragement.

I could also tell you about the night my dad devastated me by telling me I would have to go to a state college and that he wouldn't mortgage his home to fund my education. I walked in the door, she asked me what was wrong, I brokenly relayed the story, and she assured me that if she had to mortgage our house to the Devil, if I could get in, she'd send me anywhere I wanted to go.

I could tell you about the time when I was five and my mom, my brother and I were standing at the front door, watching my dad drive away with the last of his stuff. My mom said, "Well, guys. It's just the three of us now. All I ask is that you do good in school. That's all I want you to do," effectively laying the foundation for a guilt complex rivaled only by the Skywalker Ranch. I think I may have told this one before.

I could tell you about the time very recently when I came home from New York with a present for her which I knew she would love: An AC/DC Greatest Hits collection. You would have thought I'd told her I'd gotten married and knocked up, she was so excited. She force-fed the disc into the player. Right before "What Do You Do For Money Honey," started, she said, "For those about to rock," and turned the volume up so high, I had an actual moment of fear. And then, as the song played, she knew every damn word. She can't remember what she did five minutes ago, or my brother's cell phone number, which he's had for years. But she remembered every word of this: "Yeah, whattya do for money honey, how you get your kicks? Whattya do for money honey, how you get your licks?"

That's Loretta for you. You call her Loretta, too, don't ever call her Mrs. anything. She's not down with that. She's also not down with blowing sunshine up your ass or suffering pansies very well. She will tell you what's up and then dare you to tell her she's got it all wrong. She's also sassy as hell. And if you need it, she'll give it to you. If she doesn't have it, she'll find it. She'd deny herself before she'd see you without it.

Hey, at least I get it honestly.

Happy Birthday, Mom. And Happy Mother's Day. We're exactly alike in so many ways and for that I am truly grateful.