Banged up and emotionally bruised on Mother's Day

http://wlww.cheeseblarg.com/2011/11/by-tuesday-i-will-no-longer-be-liar.htm

Depending on the situation, my expectations can range from non-existent to sky-high. So, with Mother's Day, one must tread lightly as you don't know whether you're about to cross a mine field or a never-mind field. Calling me on the phone the other day, Sydney described her friend's well-intended plan to fill a jar with 365 slips of paper listing her mother's many wonderful qualities. Unfortunately, writer's block set in after wonderful quality Number 30. But still...a list of thirty of my wonderful  qualities would make for some delightful reading. So it was, with bated breath, I awoke this Mother's Sunday, foregoing my annual only-slightly-still-frozen-in-the-middle Pillsbury Toaster Strudel, I eagerly awaited the arrival of thirty hard copy compliments. "There," Sydney croaked at me, pointing a skeletal finger across the dining room table. I scanned the surface eagerly but all I saw were the dogs's Mother's Day flower bouquet with the bent stems when I'd inadvertently jammed them into a too-small vase. "There, she growled and pointed again. I looked a second time. Maybe it was next to that rumpled brown rag on the edge of the table. Oh. It WAS the rumpled brown rag on the edge of the table. I shook out my soft new sweater. I smoothed out the wrinkles and smiled. "Perfect for this beautiful 80 degree day," I said. Graciousness will not be included on next year's list of wonderful qualities.

During my delicious Mother's Day breakfast at Laurie's Restaurant, I was teased mercilessly about my fatigue after an evening of education-based frivolity. "Even your bangs look tired," Savannah observed. Bear in mind that, fifteen seconds prior to this comment, I had mistakenly thought that I was adorable. Verbally slapped back into reality, I blinked back sudden tears, Great, I thought, now I'm going to end up with "emotional basketcase" (with bad bangs) on one of my list of compliments next year.

Having become newly aware of how large my posterior had become after seen it digitally projected on the big screen last night, I made a life-altering decision:  I would go shopping for roomier clothing. As we scoured the racks, Savannah noticed an oddity on the tags. "What does the W after the size mean," she asked before quickly answering her own question, "Wide?" I spun around to confront her. "Savannah!" I exclaimed.  "The W stands for women." "No," said a grumpy salesclerk, emerging from behind a rack of brightly colored circus tents that I had momentarily thought would de-accentuate my own big top, "You're in the plus size section," she pointed out dourly. Obviously, shopping was NOT the answer to my problem (and that saleswoman, obviously, was NOT cut out for a career in retail...maybe she should apply for a position at the DMV). And, as for me and my expectations, Mother's Day could NOT be over soon enough.