The day for Mas

It’s Mother’s Day. I’m “celebrating” (quotes because it’s not really a big fete kind of a day) by not giving birth.

In my last post, I referenced ex-boys’ relationships with their moms. My sweetie, who commented below, has a long, long, long fucking row to hoe to be in their leagues. Here’s the round-up of freakish mama boys I have known:

Dave. Good old, Dave. He and I dated off and on for maybe 5 or 6 years after I graduated college during the years I worked in financial services and got a rep for dying my hair orange (need I say it was the 80s?) He would never bring me home to meet his family, because he wasn’t sure what kind of impression I would make. Because, of course, you know, I’m a fucking badass chick from the wrong side of the tracks with a prison record. Oh, wait, no, that’s not right, I was a chick in my 20s who came from a nearby suburb to his, graduated a pretty competitive school with honors and had a regular 9 to 5 job. Hmmmm, come to think of it, maybe he was signaling his commitment to the relationship.

So, Dave, struggling grad student, often went home for meals and family gatherings and just to spend time with his loved ones. He did invite me to the family manse once, when he had a house party while his folks were out of town on vacation. And, how did I at last realize that he was not the one? When we had a long talk about his deciding to leave his apartment he had only recently taken, because, you know, living like a grown up ain’t all thrills and chills. The capper that made me realize he was not “the one” and that brings him mention to this special entry, he explained to me the trials and tribulations of apartment living, the cleaning, the cooking, the negotiating with roommates and the expenses. And, finally, “You don’t understand, if I move home, there’s always food in the ‘fridge and at home my mother takes care of everything. I just am more comfortable letting her take care of me.” Gee, Dave, what a healthy attitude for a 30-year-old man.

And, there’s Tony. His middle name is Tony, but he goes by it. His first name is even more Italian Stallion, it’s almost disappointing that Guido didn’t fit in some way. After a series of obsucure and difficult to follow stories, one of which may have involved a woman changing the locks on their shared abode, Tony too lived at his mother’s. Although, I think it was a semi-detached or basement apartment of some kind, since he was working on it to make it suitable for renting.

I did get to meet his mother once. She wouldn’t look at me or say anything to me. She spoke only to her son, her son. And, she went back to her ironing. She had a lot of ironing, because her three grown sons, all in their 30s to 40s, dropped off their laundry. Tony explained this to me, “It makes her happy. She likes to take care of her boys.”

And, the grand-daddy of asshole exes, Solomon. His mother is in another country, so the impression within his life is a different one. She is a distant and holy paragon of virtue and womanhood. She cooks, she cleans and she is everything that a woman should be. Most importantly, I gather, she oozes self-respect. How does she exhibit her mountains of self-respect and all around wonderfulness? She sweeps the dust from her house constantly, and I am told, even would sweep the dust when all she had was a dirt-floored hut. This woman cleaned dirt! That is virtue incarnate.

Now this realization about that woman’s myriad virtues was revealed to me in an argument about my own housekeeping. You see if I had a dirt-floored hut, I would likely fail to clean that dirt. My dirt would be filthy. House cleaning is not a virtue I possess, I admit it, but my place is free of vermin and I rarely leave dirty dishes or food around, and the bathroom is kept acceptably clean and odor free. What I apparently failed to realize about this sad state of affairs and my slovenly ways, but Solomon helpfully pointed out, is that it’s because I have NO self-respect. I don’t like myself. I am not comfortable being a woman. Because, if I did like myself, was happy as a woman and had self-respect, I would clean. I would clean like I meant it, I would clean like the wind, I would clean, clean, clean until my self-satisfied fingers bled in joy and happiness. I would be whole and I would be a wonderful woman, like Solomon’s mom.

All these stories are a tribute to men who love their mothers, because that is a wonderful thing. But, I think Sweet summed it up best

Love is like oxygen,
you get too much it makes you high,
not enough and you’re gonna die…

It’s a special day for mama’s boys all over the country!

Talk with me. Please.

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