And my other brilliant ideas for cutting yourself a break — with or without a dead partner.
I was not raised to give a shit about Mother’s Day, but the world did not care.
Our teachers insisted that we press our sweaty little hands into tempera paint, paste together homemade cards, and shower our mothers with appreciation on some arbitrary Sunday in May. “Oh GOD,” my mom would say as we handed her our offerings, “Thank you but it’s a made-up holiday.” Nevertheless, the Sunday circulars insisted that my mother needed to be pampered. She needed “me time.” She needed a hot bath, a fat-free yogurt, a diamond pendant shaped like a mom alien made of diamonds, holding a baby alien made of diamonds.
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