It's Almost Mother's Day And Won't She Be Proud

When I first gave my mother the address to this blog I was immediately overcome with the kind of panic one would expect to feel if they were running a Hot Asian Sluts porn ring from their living room couch and that cute young thing they'd just bought from a nice man in Beijing was just revealed as an underage boy on one of those Dateline investigations, the one with all the cameras and the boom mikes and, oh yeah, those pesky police officers. The real kind, not the rent-a kind.

And while I was able to spell the address out, letter by letter, in a voice that hopefully betrayed not one ounce of my fear, I still kept waiting for the sudden cacophony of fifteen semiautomatic weapons being drawn and pointed in my direction, thanks to the in-depth reporting of Stone Phillips. My thoughts centered on what an awkward moment it was going to be when she found the post about how I crisped my nips in a tanning bed last year and equated the feeling to the sting of a thousand bees. Not only that, but she was sure to read the one about my boyfriend in eighth grade, the one she totally didn't know about. Or did, in that weird psychic mom way, and just never mentioned it for fear of traumatizing her already socially retarded daughter.

I'm not sure from where this impulse originates but I have this unrelenting need to be as secretive as possible. So secretive, in fact, that I once hid $100 worth of collected birthday and Christmas money when I was six years old only to be unable to find it ever again. That same impulse is what drove me to keep Thomas Grover a secret, even if it meant living in fear of the phone ringing for an entire six week span. I would dive for the phone because I couldn't stand the thought of having to explain who Thomas was and why the fuck he kept calling every day. Boyfriends or crushes or passing fancies were never to be discussed within earshot of the parents. And there would certainly be no explaining of why I wanted to be dropped off at the movie theater two blocks from the entrance just so I could sit in a heavily air conditioned theater and hold hands with my not-so beloved.

But secretive I was and will probably remain, though it's certainly become less pronounced over the years. I no longer hide my money in uncertain places but I do keep a stack of trashy romance novels hidden behind my properly shelved and displayed classics of yore. I also hate to tell people where I'm going or where I've been; not for fear that I'll be reprimanded, just the fact that they'll know. Back in the day I refused to tell anyone when I first kissed a boy (a blind date when I was 17) or when I got my heart broken (18). It wasn't through any misguided stoicism or some need to suffer in silence, it was just me and my craving for all things hidden and obscured.

What's unfortunate is that I even had to keep how much I loved her a secret. My first memory of expressing the familial love was at summer dance camp, on the phone. I can remember how stilted and awkward the conversation felt; I'd never before had reason to talk to my parents on the phone. Why would I ever feel inclined to keep up a steady stream of conversation if you could just pause now and again and pick up when you were ready? But things don't work like that on the phone. That first conversation was riddled with pauses and lulls and forced words masquerading as sentences. At the end of the chat she told me she loved me and I knew I had to say it back. But it was the first time I'd actually had to SAY IT say it. I was strangely embarrassed that the other girls would know I loved my mom. The secretive thing again. But I said it that day and maybe a few days after. Then I said it some more when I left for college. And said it some more when I moved to New York. And now I say it every week, no awkwardness or stilted conversation involved. Because now I know how important it is that she know how damn cool she is and how much I need her. Need her like a fat kid needs a Little Debbie snack. But I do, I need her. So it's really not so bad that she reads this. Because at least some of the things I still find hard to say in person- like how much I love the way she smells and how she makes me calm and how I love that she no longer acts shocked when I say Fuck- can come out in some format other than verbal.

So now I can officially tell my mother that I am not a lesbian, even though Aunt Vicky is convinced I am. In fact, there is no chance of me being a lesbian. Don't get me wrong, I fully support whatever lifestyle anyone participates in as long as it doesn't involve small woodland creatures or anything that might encroach on my Hot Asian Slut business (I really only do it for the shoe money). But if you could just let her know that pussy totally skeeves me out, that would be great. Also, it's probably going to be a long time before I bring somebody home for dinner. I don't date much, ok, ever, and that whole introduction to the family thing will probably always be a little awkward. And I haven't really cut my brother out, I'm just patiently waiting on him to get his shit together.

Finally, you have a really nice ass and should show it off more.