This year, my idea of a good Mother’s Day consists of quiet time. Working on some self-care.

I give my bedroom, my sanctuary, a brief but relaxing straightening. I light incense, sip a cup of something warm, paint my nails and settle in to do a bit of writing. Fiction. Just some fun, relaxing storytelling. Weaving and spinning. No pricey invest of soul here, just some literary dessert, if you will.

I set out to write a love-story-type vignette. Maybe even attempt a bit of erotica. (Some of you might be groaning, "Oh no, again?")

I’ve made this a temporary, transitory goal a couple of times, in the past. Kind of challenging my comfort here, testing my default. Besides love scenes, I also am not proficient at nor partial to writing violence. Just not in the natural flow of my writing.

So, typically, as far as my writing is concerned, no sex and no violence, and you may now be asking yourself,

“What else is there?”

And my well-rehearsed answer to that is,

“There’s human drama, I tell you! The stuff of the heart, don’t you know.”

Melodrama, dialogue, humor and smart-assery. This is where my natural 'talents' lie. But occasionally, I do like to challenge this about myself and reach into the dark abyss for the erotic and the intense, the physical.

“How’s that working for ya, so far?” you might be wondering.
Well, I’m here to tell you, “Not so much.”

What historically ends up happening is that I’ll start some shadowy, romantical, steamy scene but by the third or fourth sentence, instead of telling how his hands are moving across her flesh, or what sensuous sounds are can be heard coming from the ruby lips of whomever, I’m busy describing the texture of the dog collar on the neck of the terrier that belongs to the kid who lives three houses down from our main character. You know, the blue house with the white fence around it.

Sex and violence are ideally action-oriented. But I’m known to get caught up in the story telling, the history of my location, the color of the apples on the table, the maiden name of the babysitter’s grandmother on her stepfather’s side.

As you might have guessed, self care via fiction writing didn't last too long. I moved on to other things. Like brownies without nuts. A scoop of vanilla on the side.


And I flipped on the *telly, to see what was on this Mother’s Day of perfect weather. (*This appliance seems somehow less worthless and less heinous if I use the British slang instead.) How's that for questionable Mother's Day self-care.

Let’s see, we have here:

Air Force One,

NBA playoffs (times two),

Rawhide,

Mighty Morphin Power Rangers,

baseball (for what that's worth, lately),

NASCAR,

Stephen King’s Carrie,

Deadliest Catch,

one of the twelve Alien sequels,

bowling,

American Idol reruns (not for this mother),

PGA,

fishing,

Alien v. Predator (not included in the aforementioned sequels)

and Saving Private Ryan.

Not that I don’t enjoy a good Deadliest Catch once in a while, but seriously do television execs not have mothers?

Did they not get that memo about Mother’s Day that all the retailers, restaurants, florists and spas sent out?

I guess I shouldn't complain. At some point, the old school Willie Wonka movie was on (my preference) and then Mary Poppins. (Impossible to get to much 'Spoon Full of Sugar' in my book.)

I guess I'll have to be brave and dig back into the love scene that I started writing earlier.

Or maybe just one more brownie. No nuts.