Saturday, May 13, 2017

May 13, 2017

Dear Diary,

Try as I might, I've never really been very good about celebrating holidays, especially family occasions like Mothers Day.  For some reason, what starts out as a nice day always erupts into huge brouhahas. Maybe it has something to do with my own upbringing, which wasn't exactly typical.

When I was a little girl, for example, Mothers Day was a different kind of thing. I was about five years old when my parents first gathered me and my brothers Hugh and Tony, around the table to play games, like "Guess Who Your Real Father Is" and "Why Does Tony Look Completely Different Than You Other Two." It provided my parents with hours of laughs and I'm pretty sure it's the reason why Tony is an alcoholic today. We'd play that game until all three children were crying really hard and then my mom would serve ice cream.

I sure don't want to repeat that experience, which is why I insisted on screwing Webb Hubbell that one time having only one child.  By limiting our tax deduction offspring to Chelsea, Bill and I felt we could better focus our abuse attentions more effectively on just one child, thereby assuring her need for radical facial plastic surgery a healthy, happy childhood.  Actually, Bill wasn't really there to help raise Chel. He was a good provider, but an absent one.  All those road trips with state troopers and hookers political obligations kept him away for a lot of the time.

I wanted to make sure that this year's Mothers Day would go off without a hitch, so I called Chel to make sure she and the half-Jew kids would be here for brunch.  Well, that didn't go so well.

First thing she does is read me the riot act for calling on a Saturday. Apparently the Chosen People don't pick up the phone on their Sabbath, which I didn't know, because I have plenty of Jew friends and every one of them used to call me all day Saturday whenever they needed a favor.  Believe me, Streisand doesn't spend her Saturdays in a circle with a bunch of black-robed men stroking their beards, I can tell you that.  I've been to her Malibu compound and what I've seen going on Saturday afternoons would make your skin crawl.

As if that wasn't bad enough, I had a senior moment totally forgot that since she married that Jewish person, I can't serve her favorite bacon-cheese melt casserole for brunch, even if it's on paper plates.  She got all up in my face about my being insensitive to her needs and slammed down the phone, so now I don't even know if they're coming over tomorrow.

That's not how a child should treat her mother. I went through a lot to give life to Chel.  Just the thought of seeing Webb Hubbell with his pants around his ankles still makes me throw up, although the Zofran samples Dr. Morell gave me help to keep my breakfast down.

I was looking forward to the kids visiting.  I could have taught them the game.  You know, family and tradition is what it's all about.

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