I’m not big on observing holidays. One of them I haven’t observed has certainly been this lame-ass Hallmark holiday called Mother’s Day. It is true, I do have a mother, and have taken her to dinner and bought her the not-so-reverent card to mark the occasion. But I would estimate that there were few Mother’s Days that I’ve really done anything special.

So it came as a great surprise that when I opened my first Mother’s Day card from the bun (my husband assures me that Tiny picked it out himself and promised to pay him back later) I blubbered like Julia Roberts at Oscar time. And when I got three massages from the foofy spa up the street because I’m beginning to walk like Marty Feldman from carrying around a Butterball turkey and hunching over to give him boob? Positively weepy.

Of course, now it makes me feel all crappy that I never did anything special for my mother on Mother’s Day, even though she is also less than reverent about such things.

So if you are like me, and think that just because your mom was one of the “cool” ones who didn’t really have “truck with such matters as Mother’s Day” you will make her heart break in tiny pieces if you just go buy her some dopey card. I promise.

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