Family

It’s true I don’t get all squishy on days like this. I mean, I don’t really get squishy at all, but Hallmark holidays like Mother’s Day don’t mean anything to me.

It isn’t that I’m cold. I mean, I am cold, but this isn’t related. It’s that my upbringing was such a confused, fucked-up mess.

My father bailed when I was two. Then, depending on whose story you believe, my mother either asked or was bullied into giving me up for adoption to my grandparents (my maternal grandmother, Sylvia, and her second husband, Cecil, who was not my mother’s father).

That’s right. Legally, my mother is also my sister. Is that Chinatown enough for you?

My grandparents did they best they could. Certainly, I was a pain in the ass kid.

My mother has always been around, to varying degrees. Sometimes I see her often, usually a few times a year.Less since I moved to L.A. I’ve talked to my dad a handful of times, seen him maybe five or six times since I hit 18. But, at this remove, and with both of my grandparents dead, these little card-and-flower fiestas don’t mean a lot to me.

But it’s a big day for “brunch.”

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Never go to bed mad. Stay up and fight. — Phyllis Diller