I have a new post up at Pittsburgh Magazine where I not only found nine awesome gifts for moms made by Burghers or about Pittsburgh, but I also talk a bit about how much fail went into Mother’s Day when I was growing up.
A lot of fail.
My father, God bless him, has not always been the most thoughtful of gift givers when it came to my mother. I mean, his intentions were always good. Always pure. Always from love. But man, did some of his intentions stink like a skunk that ate rotting flesh.
LOVE YOU, DADDY!
I didn’t realize it as a child, but now as a wife and a mother? Pee-EW!
One of the most distinct memories I have as a teenager was of one particular Mother’s Day, I think it was Mother’s Day, but it could have been her birthday, when my father bought my mother a giant bottle of Sunflowers perfume. Like, who knew they made it in bulk, am I right?
That’s all he bought her. And a card in which he underlined the words in the prewritten poem that he felt were the most meaningful.
You’re the love of my life.
You bring joy to my heart.
Happy Mother’s Day
You get the picture.
I think it cost him like fifteen dollars, and here’s the thing — My mother? Does not wear perfume. Ever. Because she is INTENSELY asthmatic and has been since childhood. She can’t burn candles or she’ll wheeze. Humidity makes her lungs close up shop like they’re in Pitcairn. If she doesn’t want to gasp like a fish out of water, she needs her air clean, clear, crisp, cool and free of lung-clogging particles.
So the fact that my father bought her the super-sized bottle of a cheap perfume that would make her lungs sieze to the point that she would need to suck on an inhaler for an hour just to squeak out a terse, “YOU’RE THE DEVIL!”, didn’t go over very well. It was like buying a deaf person noise canceling headphones.
He’s gotten much better, I assure you. He takes her on cruises now.
Maybe you’re like my father was and you need a little help this Mother’s Day. If so, check out some of the gifts I found!
A snippet that proves us girls weren’t any better at gift giving:
I recall once sitting in my bedroom with one of my sisters and mixing the remains of three foul smelling perfumes into one all-new-and-improved Essence of Putrescence, and when my mother walked into the room, her eyes immediately tearing up from the sting of Eau de Pew, we exclaimed, “Ta-da! For you!”