Category — F*** My Family

I know we live in a post-Freudian era where it’s no longer cool to blame our mothers for all that’s wrong in our lives. But I don’t care about being cool, and the honest truth is that my mom is squarely to blame for my self-loathing and generally fucked up mental state. So this year for Mother’s Day, I plan to present my mom with this thoughtful and highly creative  death threat gift:

My mom was a smoker for 40 years until she recently quit and, like many ex-smokers, she’s substituting food for cigarettes. Her new drug: the Wendy’s frosty. Today she called me to ask if I was going to be out her way, and I told her I wasn’t planning on it. “Oh, well,” she said with a tinge of sad desperation in her voice, “IF you DO come this way and IF you pass by a Wendy’s, would you pick me up a frosty?” And you know what? I did it. That’s right. The way I figure it, she’s partially to blame for my anorexia so it’s only fair if I’m partially to blame for her obesity. LOVE YOU, MOM!

Skinny Lady just introduced me to FMyLife, the most genius website since Random Anorexics and Toothpaste For Dinner. I briefly browsed through the submitted FMLs and came across what I possibly think is the best one ever:

“Today, I told my mom I am bulimic and have been for a few years and that I need help. She responded by saying “Well that’s clearly not working for you. Why don’t you try anorexia.” She then patted me on my head, smiled, and walked away. FML”

Sometimes I can’t believe what our my world has come to. Yesterday, my mother — who didn’t fail to notice that my hair was too ashy, my eyebrows too dark and my arms not toned enough — was telling me about her monthly “girls’ night out” with some of her friends. Apparently, a local restaurant/club hosts the ladies only event, charging $20 per person. There’s food, music, dancing and even contests. Last week, one women won the prize for best (most expensive) purse. Her award: a gift certificate for Botox.

Yes, I live in California.

P.S. As I write this blog, I can feel the ground move from a 5.8 earthquake that just occurred off the gulf of California.

My 12 year old niece informed me that she’s not eating because her mom said said she’s “fat and needs to lose weight.” I almost drove myself over to my ex-sister-in-law that  fat slutface’s  house to inform her that she’s just a jealous piece of ignorant shit. Then my husband reminded me that she’d kick my skinny ass, and he’s absolutely right. That’s why I’m writing this blog instead.

I get online this morning to check my email and see one from my mother. The subject line reads: Read this, My Love.

Then she pastes this link in the body of the email:

She may be an Orange County housewife, but I still love her.

My mom noticed that I’ve gained weight, and I know this because she just told me how much better I look with a few extra pounds. Her exact words were:

“Whatever weight you’re at, you need to stay there. You look good. Your face doesn’t look so gone.”

Probably she meant to say “gaunt,” which was precisely the look I was striving for. But now I’m thinking “gone” is a better goal.

My dad starved himself to death 12 years ago but if he were here today, I’d be sure to thank him for being such a great role model and teaching me that physical beauty is all you’ve got in this life and once it’s gone, you’re pretty much fucked.

And if I had a relationship with my stepdad, I’d thank him for abandoning me when he was all I had left in this world. Thanks guys, and Happy Father’s Day. You both fucking rock!