I suppose most offspring would head out to purchase a happy mother’s day Hallmark, toss in a plate of French toast and something citrusy and be done with it. Others might go the extra 5280 and head over to some overpriced hotel brunch with big hats and tuxedoed maitre’d’s who advertise overcooked salmon and the sort of chocolate-filled crepes which cause mother’s day’s brunches to end with two violent hours in the bathroom, followed by an afternoon of gastro-intestinal cramping and what your average unfeeling man might consider torturous tears.
Then there are the valedictorians of maternal nurturing, those effeminate youths who spend endless hours gluing and glittering crimson-colored hearts with hyperemotional messages of gratitude and love, followed by a truckload of individually wrapped chocolates, each with a personal message engraved in sugary frosting, and trailed by a triumphant four hour seven-course meal prepared over a three-day term and marinated and basted in ways that would make any television-based celebrity chef beam with approval, culminating in a put-your-feet-up-on-the-ottoman and relax while we present this Price is Right reading of your gift selection, painstakingly tied in bright red bows and chosen both for your personal pleasure and with the aforethought of saving you hours of now-that-we’re-all-grown-up unnecessary labor.
But see, here’s the thing: you always told me you found me under a rock! So I’m going to leave it up to Paul or Chris or Dave or Sean or any of my other high school buddies who asked you to my senior prom – bastards! – to handle the gift-giving this year.