Mothers’ Day is lurking around the corner…
May 1st, 2008(Author’s note: I decided on Mothers’ instead of Mother’s to express plural ownership. If you prefer Mother’s, just pretend you’re dyslexic and swap the apostrophe around.)
Is it just me, or does it seem like Mothers’ Day comes around maybe five, six times per year? It’s the damndest thing, Christmas seems to come just about once per year, along with Thanksgiving and Easter, but it feels like we have Mothers’ Day every other month or so. Every year, the first time I hear that this holiday is approaching, I always find myself saying, “What, already?”
Maybe it’s because Christmas and Easter and Halloween and Thanksgiving all have a lot of fanfare surrounding them that starts a good two or three months out from the actual holiday. Maybe the decorations and commercials seep into my subconscious and alert me that those holidays are coming, while Mothers’ Day is more of a stealth holiday. Much like Daylight Savings Time, Mothers’ Day zooms in under your radar, coming at you hard and fast, and explodes into your consciousness at 11:45pm the night before, causing you to have to run to the store (or run around your house, resetting clocks) in a panic looking for an appropriate card. Of course, the only cards left are the ones that say, “You look like a million dollars: green and wrinkled.” You’re pretty sure Mom has a sense of humor, but this might not be the day to test it.
OK, so moms have a tough job. Some of them do it pretty well, some of them screw it up royally, most of them manage to muddle through. I understand why Mothers’ Day exists. I’m a little less clear on why Fathers’ Day seems to get mostly glossed over. I find that hypocritical and cynical, but you will not catch me saying so in print. What really burns my biscuits, though [WARNING: Monster digression brewing, please hold on to the handrail], is these completely bogus holidays that seem to be growing up between our toes like poisonous weeds, wrapping themselves around our ankles and tripping us up as we try to navigate from January first to December thirty-first. My favorite (in the sense of “most hated”) example of this is Sweetest Day. Sweetest Day is Valentines Day Round Two, nothing more, nothing less. Some revisionist Sweetest Day apologists claim the holiday was invented to bring cheer to orphans or some such baloney, but we men know the truth: Sweetest Day is the product of an evil conspiracy between Big Candy, the Worldwide Greeting Card Consortium, the international florists cartels, and, possibly, the Bilderberg Group, designed to crush mens’ spirits and stuff the ever-hungry maw of the retail gift industry. I have no solid proof of Bilderberg involvement, but with something as insidious as Sweetest Day, I’m sure they’re involved, somehow.
Sweetest Day nestles quietly on the downhill slope of October, coiled and waiting to strike. Like a nest of vipers hidden beneath a fallen log, Sweetest Day shelters in the shadow of Halloween, waiting for the unwary North American male to approach close enough to become a victim. Who can blame the poor fellow, with the hoopla surrounding Halloween, how is this innocent creature supposed to remember to buy candy both for the little children and for his significant other? Why should a man be saddled with this unreasonable burden, especially when Valentine’s Day is just around the corner? Why is our hero not free to simply ignore or forget Sweetest Day? I will tell you why [WARNING: I am about to make broad, sexist generalizations about men and women. I have no medical or educational history to back up these chauvinist ideas, but I’m right and you know it.]: because his girlfriend will remember. I have no idea how this works with homosexual couples, but with the standard male-female configuration, the man is expected, at various times during the year, to spew gifts like a faulty arcade crane machine. Any man who forgets to do so at the appropriate times (as designated by the woman and/or the candy companies) is subject to severe penalties. (I would like to point out that, with great restraint, I did not make an “early withdrawal” joke in the previous sentence.) Your girlfriend, who can never remember where she left her car keys, remembers with photographic clarity every single square on the calendar that has a gift-giving holiday of any kind associated with it. Your Catholic girlfriend, who has never seen a Jew except on South Park, knows EXACTLY when Hanukkah starts and ends, and if you are 1/64 Jewish on your great-great-grandmother’s side, you’d better make with the gifts. Women, we love you and we treasure you, but you are not entitled to gifts simply for existing. Somehow, the media, the candy companies, the greeting card companies, the Bilderbergers, evolution, your parents, my parents, and the guy who makes those car commercials where he screams at you about down payments (he may not actually be involved, but I hate him, so he’s on the damn list) have convinced you otherwise. Our affection for you is not measured in squares of chocolate, nor in jewelery, nor in sappy greeting cards. Having said that, your man is probably a clueless dolt who will never think to buy you flowers unless someone hits him over the head with the bouquet, so I’m going to let Valentine’s Day slide. That’s it, though, you don’t get two!
If you’re not offended yet, hold on, I’ve got more.
I also despise Secretaries Day. Oh, excuse me, Administrative Professionals Day, as if the concept weren’t insipid enough. If your boss appreciates you and gives you something extra, great! Otherwise, tough. Unless you are doing something extraordinarily altruistic or socially redeeming, like accepting a starvation wage to teach mentally handicapped children or working for peanuts rebuilding hurricane-damaged homes for strangers, you don’t deserve to be fawned over for doing the job you’re paid to do. If your boss is a jerk and doesn’t acknowledge your contributions, spit in his coffee and move on. That’s the system we’ve had for thousands of years, and, by gum, I think it’s the one we should stick with. There are too many jobs and not enough days in the year. We do not need Administrative Professionals Day, we do not need Street Sweeper Appreciation Day, We do not need The Guy Who Sells You Your Beer at the Stadium Day, we do not need Blogger Appreciation Day, we do not need to stroke and coddle everyone for every little thing they do. If you want roses and candy, get out there and buy some.
I’m not even going to point out how the VAST majority of bogus holidays end with women getting the gifts and men getting the burden of responsibility. Yeah, you could be a male secretary working for a female boss, but unless I missed something, it’s still weighted in the other direction. Not to mention that we men barely remember our own birthdays, much less bogus greeting card holidays and we wouldn’t sulk and lose your phone messages for a week if you forgot to buy us a latte on Administrative Professionals Day.
My vitriolic hatred is running out, so I am going to wind it up, here. As my final act in this post, I am calling for a violent uprising against the flower and candy cartels that have oppressed the American (and probably other western) males for far too long. I want to see rioting, fires, and widespread looting. Once we’ve overthrown the greedy corporate holiday creators, I will appoint myself Holiday Ambassador and will personally see to it that no more of this bullshit slips into our culture. Since I am not expecting a lot of support from women (except maybe the ones in lesbian relationships that have to buy the gifts, again, not sure how that works), I am counting on you men to carry my message to the streets. Vive La Revolucion!
[Oh, wait, this was about Mothers’ Day. I’d better un-digress.]
So, pick up that phone and call your mom. Unless she was a rotten, heartless shrew, she deserves a little appreciation for her work. If your mother was a heartless shrew, you can always hang up on her when she answers. Either way, you’ll be glad you called.
