I am not my hair, but I sure as hell am my mom

Being awake at almost 6:00 AM and listening to talk radio reminds me that I pretty much am my mother. Add to that, I am awake because I have sciatica pain, a swollen ankle, this week I hate men, and I have been swearing an inappropriate amount lately.

God, I miss that woman.

And one of the bigger reasons for me missing Mom is that I know she’d be awake right now, too. She’d be around to tell me that Mitt Romney was an asshole. She would be able to reassure me that most men I date aren’t worth my time, but I know she’d pull up a friend or two and say “What about them? You know, you shouldn’t rule out dating them.” And when I would say “I hate New York sometimes,” she would respond with some kind of snappy remark about how much New York does suck and she always worried I would get stabbed or mugged.

So, it’s true what they say to you. When your parents die, your friends and family tell you that you can talk to them anytime and anticipate their response. You KNOW what they will say. And I guess I do. I know exactly what my mom would say if I called her at 6 AM.

She’d tell me to stop being such an asshole, take a muscle relaxer, and go back to sleep.

Mom hugging Dad in 1989 in a moment of weakness, and perhaps inebriation.

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