Good Monday morning, everyone. We’re coming up on two years of GNM, and I’d like to thank everyone for sticking around this long and reading my ramblings.
I feel this newsletter is a much healthier outlet than writing manifestos to the government, which was my original idea. If Ted Kaczynski had a newsletter, maybe he wouldn’t have been such a rascal.
Today is March 11th, a special day for fans of the band 311. I would discourage you from getting a massive forearm tattoo of the band’s logo like a friend did many years ago, but hey, if it feels good, do it.
Today is also a special day because it’s my mother’s birthday. I’d have to check the astrological charts for the last time my mother and father had birthdays on a Monday, but I don’t remember it ever happening.
The last time January 8th and March 11th fell on Mondays may have been in the late Jurassic period. 2024 is just one of those special years where the stars align. I can feel it.
My mother is an artist. Art has been the thread that ran through her life, as that’s been her defining characteristic. She dabbles in several mediums: painting, watercolor, sketches, and various crafts such as jewelry design and Mardi Gras accessories. No matter the medium, she always delivers something vibrant.
While my mother is a fantastic artist, those talents don’t always transfer to the kitchen. Mom says she’s not a good cook, but her potato salad and tacos rank among my all-time favorites.
No one can unbox an Old El Paso hard taco dinner and whip up some ground beef quite like Mom, and I’d challenge Gordon Ramsey to create a taco dinner that rivals hers.
Have there been a few missteps? Sure. My sister and I have been on the receiving end of a few dinners so…creative…that Mom dubbed them “shiver dinners” because they’re so bad they make you shiver.
One memorable shiver dinner was Mom’s interpretation of a hobo dinner. It appeared to be some kind of meat slathered in a mushroom soup, wrapped in foil, and thrown in the oven until the mushroom soup reached the consistency of lukewarm phlegm.
But like most free thinkers, Mom took a swing. Much like Thomas Edison, Mom’s history in the kitchen is a testament not to failing but finding ten thousand ways that don’t work. Sooner or later, one of these shiver dinners will be a culinary masterpiece.
There have been numerous Thanksgivings when my sister and I have waited patiently, watching Thanksgiving episodes of our favorite Thursday night NBC comedies while Mom cooks dinner. We’d look at each other, wondering when dinner would be ready, only to see Mom working diligently on one of her paintings.
We’d remind her that it’s now 8:00 p.m. and most of America has eaten and is getting ready for bed. She’d look at the time, jump up, and put together a Thanksgiving feast that didn’t always pay homage to the noble Pilgrims, but we had mashed potatoes.
Growing up, there were times when my Mom’s spirituality didn’t align with the rigors of my non-denominational Christian school. Her interpretation of God and the one they taught me didn’t always match up, which sometimes made me worry about the fate of her eternal soul.
Surely, God wouldn’t cast my mother into the lake of fire, but our school’s resident theologian and girls’ basketball coach would do her best to convince me otherwise.
When my sister or I faced a dilemma, Mom always said, “Give it to the universe.” For a long time, I thought that was some woo-woo devil worship, a remnant from the Summer of Love and her California sensibilities.
What I didn’t understand was that Mom was more in tune with God than any of the teachers at my school. Many of them thought she was “new-age” and a little kooky, but they could be close-minded and didn’t take the time to listen to what she was saying.
Now that I’m older, I’ve adopted my Mom’s particular philosophy on life. It’s one of harmony between mind and body. It’s about listening to the universe and putting your problems in God’s hands, whatever that may look like to you.
Mom has always been a big proponent of the healing powers of exercise, and while I didn’t listen until I was in my thirties, fitness has become an essential part of my mental health. Without such a steadfast health role model, I would not be the physical specimen I am today.
Happy Birthday, Mom. With your rigorous elliptical routine, I’m sure we’ll celebrate many more. Thank you for showing me what genuine kindness looks like and giving me the cornerstones of a dynamic personality that keeps people from wanting to run away from me.
Thank you for teaching me the importance of putting the toilet seat down, how to treat a woman, why being cheap is gross, and to always look for the humor in any given situation. We share more similarities than I can count, and I think of them as the best parts of myself.
Your optimism carried our family through some dark times, and to wrap this up, I’ll end with the words you shared with me that I think about when life get tough:
“Things will get better, I promise.”
I love you, Mom.
Until next time.