MOTHERS.

MY GOD! It started earlier than I thought!

There's something about mothers that are like regional accents; if you're around them long enough, they'll start to rub off on you. After 25 years as my mother's favorite son (suck it, Justin), I'm starting to see how my much of an impact my mom has had on my personality. In honor of Mother's Day, I'll rehash the ways I pay homage to her everyday.

I'M DELIGHTED BY DANCE.

This wasn't me, but it might as well be.

It all started with the movie Grease. Just because her grade school friends dubbed her Sandra D's doppelgänger (the non-whorish version), I was forced to sit idly by and watch her live vicariously through Olivia Newton John. Once Stockholm syndrome set in, I found myself hand jiving during my little league baseball games. I traded in the effeminate show tunes for a different kind of hand jiving come high school (no-pun intended), but I had a choreography-dance relapse several years ago after watching So You Think You Can Dance. Guess who pushed me off the wagon? 

I'M GOING "GREEN."

It's like that, minus the broken part.

My mom is Al Gore's biggest fan; she just doesn't know it. To her, the only Inconvenient Truth is the fact that heating and cooling your house can be costly. Unless you're an Inuit in the winter or Usain Bolt in the summer, it's impossible to get comfortable in that household. Lo and behold, who resisted turning on the A/C until Austin temperatures reached the 90s and his roommate politely insisted he flip the switch? I'll give you a hint; he's Usain Inuit's kid. And don't even get me started on her refrigerator policy. I felt more pressure reaching for the orange juice container than Indiana Jones going for the golden idol (Raiders of the Lost Ark reference). But even now, more than 1,250 miles from my childhood home, I'm haunted by the thought of a neglected refrigerator door. 

I'M SHREDDER OBSESSED.

Twice.

I don't know if my mom thinks she's Ethan Hunt or what, but anything containing her name and address is immediately shredded. Whenever she gets a magazine, she rips off the label and turns it into confetti. If she gets a package, she ransacks the shipping info like a bear to a picnic basket. And when her credit card expires, she grinds the old one down to a substance finer than powder. But who am I to judge? Even though someone is more likely to offer me charity than steal my identity, I feel the need to shred my mail to smithereens. 

I'M RESISTANT TO CHANGE.

"This one still works just fine." – Mom

There's a reason I had a flip phone until a couple of months ago, and it's not because "It gets better reception." It's because my mom insisted we use our appliances until the day they die. Up until last year, she recorded her soap operas and dance shows on VHS tapes. If my brother and I didn't force her to get a new computer, she'd still be using a desktop with a 2 MHz processor. (For those of you who aren't nerdy enough to know, that's incredibly slow, and probably exaggerated.) And her microwave is from the same era as the first A-bomb. Is it any wonder I continue to wear 8-year-old ROOS and sleep beneath the same lion blanket I've snoozed under since birth? 

I'M THE MASTER OF SPITE.

Although we rarely traveled in my youth, I went on plenty of these.

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, and a woman scorned hath no hell like my mother spurned. Not even deep space can compete with her silent treatments. (Get it? If not, click this link.) Her grudges are as permanent as a spring break tramp stamp. And although she constantly forgets even the simplest computer operations, her memory is iron clad when it comes to past transgressions. After studying her methods since my first temper tantrum, I've officially mastered the art of my mother's malice. But don't get me wrong, we're not hateful people... unless you f*** with us.


I could go on for days about trivial similarities like our hyper hyperboles and incessant ice chewing, but I think the five main traits give my psychologist friends plenty of material for their confidential psychoanalysis. One thing is for sure – I wouldn't have it any other way. Happy Mother's Day, Mother Dearest. Although I'll never willingly let you read this, I want the Interwebz to know you truly are the best.  

BOWLING.

There's something about bowling that makes me think about more than athlete's foot, cheap beer and the highlight of Steve Buscemi's career (Name that movie). Maybe it's just the Lysol or oil fumes, but when I tippy toe to the foul line I see THE FUTURE. Allow me to explain:

THE BOWLING ALLEY OF LIFE

In case my little diagram wasn't clear enough for you, this metaphor contains three major elements; the ball (your life), its path (your path) and the pins (your regrets). As a bowler (human), your goal is to put your ball (life) on a path (path) that will leave the least amount of pins (regrets) once it's done. 

If I wanted to get REALLY into this metaphor, I could liken the oil pattern to life obstacles and ball weights to existential importance, but I'm pretty sure the three major elements have already earned me a straight jacket. So, before I'm abducted by the local insane asylum, I'll elaborate on the most important part of this analogy, the paths.

PATH 1: STRAIGHT & SAFE

The Path

What's everyone's biggest fear when rolling that sphere down the lane (other than a friend stealing their unsupervised fries)? Ending up in the gutter. And what's the easiest way to ensure that won't happen? Aim straight for the middle. That's where most balls (lives) end up, the middle. And why not, you're less likely to fail, you maintain some dignity and there's even a tiny chance you'll hit every pin. That's fine for those bowlers (humans) with low expectations, but if you're the type who sees each lingering pin as misshapen middle finger, you may want to find another way down the alley. 

The Result

PATH 2: CONSTANTLY SAVED

The Path

Bumpers (parents and/or guardians) are fine if you're celebrating your 8th birthday or suffering from cerebral palsy (or another physically debilitating disability), but no one's going to give you a high five for depending on gutter guards your entire life. Just look at Paris Hilton. Aside from her sex tape, she hasn't made a single significant contribution to our society. She just bounces between DUIs and roles in horrible DVDs (aforementioned sex tape excluded) with her family name protecting her every step of the way. Bowlers like Paris may be immune to the gutter, but their achievements will always be marred by their reliance on bumpers. 

The Result

PATH 3: A LITTLE RISKY

The Path

Have you ever seen a serious bowler use either of the previous approaches? Dumb question; no one besides me and your grandparents watch professional bowling. The answer is no, they don't. They make their ball (life) flirt with the gutter and recover just in time to take out every pin (regret). But this technique isn't for the weak. It requires a kind of control and dedication that most bowlers just weren't born with.  

The Result

So, bowlers, how do you roll?