Shit my mom says.

I fail at Mother's Day. I mean, tomorrow I'm going to send her some flowers with a cheesy note and try really hard to remember to call her. And that's suppose to show that I appreciate the life she wasted trying to make sure I didn't choke to death on my necklace in my sleep. The best Mother's Day present in the world isn't going to make up for what a pain in the ass it was to work around my school schedule for twelve years. If Catholic guilt had a Holiday, it would look exactly like Mother's Day.

And Mother's Day isn't even good for mothers! Do you know how much effort has to be put in to faking excitement over a picture frame covered in glittery macaroni? You're just giving her another chore. Now she has to clean up glitter, which everyone knows is impossible.

My mom told me recently that she worries she didn't do a good enough job raising my brother and I (a confession I am sure is totally fine with me sharing on the internet). Now, most people use Mother's Day as an occasion to thank their mothers for helping them become what they are today. I want to go one step further and blame her. I have an irrational belief that I am the prettiest girl in the world, and I honestly believe those other girls are just jealous, and its all her fault.

Also, My mother has instilled in me a healthy fear of bears. When I was younger, she used to find the weirdest times to tell me facts about bears. She would tuck me in at night and say, "Bears can outrun people!" or "Did you know you could shoot a Grizzly bear with a shotgun, and it wont die? You're going going to make it mad! Sleep tight!"

My mother also aided my being weird and awkward by pretending like it was "ok" to be different. She used to make my brother and I sing "rocky raccoon" to her when we'd go on car trips. And the radio wasn't broken. Because of that, I think I have an excellent singing voice. That's right! She told me I have a nice singing voice. You're welcome, world!

Muppet faces. A new Christmas tradition. 

So, I guess my point is, I like the job my mom did raising me. 

Hipsters in love, or you know, just, like, together or whatever.

I spent my Sunday morning at a bridal expo, and I am embarrassed about it. You know something is shameful when they give out free cake and drinks and you still don't want anyone to know you were there.

It was exactly what I expected it to be, with the exception of a new trend in hipster weddings. There were multiple vendors (dueling vendors!!) renting vintage accessories for your special day. If hipsters even have special days. Maybe they just have, like, you know, days, or whatever.

I now know that for a small fortune, you can rent dirty old bicycles, stacked luggage, empty mason jars, old books, storm windows, or even broken camera equipment. As I was looking at their displays, I realize that my mother's house is like a warehouse of hipster accessories. And she didn't even know it; how hipster of her is that?!   

There was one "piece" at the show that consisted of three old doors leaned up against each other. They looked exactly like the doors my mother stores in our basement because it would be too expensive to bring them to the dump. I asked the vendor how much it would be to rent them and she replied, "Oh, this entire ensemble, including the board*, would be around $350 for an event."

So, let me get this straight, my mother hides her doors and storm windows in the basement, when she could be pimping them around town for serious bank?! That is ridiculous. 

I made my mom go and take a picture of one of them:

 

*the board for rent was a 2x4 covered in chipped paint. And I know what you're thinking. I can't believe she just threw the board in for free either.

To put this all into perspective, if my mother had been renting this decorative fruitcake tin, instead of getting it for free from the dump's swap shop ten years ago, she would have had to pay more then ten thousand dollars just to have it sitting, or, should I say decorating, in her pantry.

I wonder how much they'd change for a peace lily the size of a mature hosta, because she's got one. 

I asked my mom to walk around her house and take pictures of her stuff, here are a few things she captured: 

(not shown: wood stove, cake holders, rocking chair, twenty-year-old cat, 50s step stool, endless amounts of baskets, and more)

I know. Its a goldmine in there. 

Thanks, mom.