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How I Humiliated Myself on Mother’s Day (The Mother of Freudian Slips)

I can see into the future. I can see all the way to Sunday when you will be let down by the Costco and Walgreen’s offerings your last minute family will present at your un-pedicured feet on Mother’s Day.

I can see you crying in your bathroom because when all is said and done on the “Mother-Of-All-Days,” you will be left with one freaking hour of time to nap, or Netflix or (insert your poison here).

I feel that it is my responsibility to help you.

To put a smile on your face before you have to suck it up and go on Mom-ing for another year.

So please, take it.

Take my humiliation and be grateful.

Be thankful it wasn’t you.

Mother’s Day Weekend 1996

My future husband invited me to spend the weekend at his parent’s home in the country. Mother’s Day was a pretty big deal as it included attending the family’s church service on Sunday. I knew this overnight extravaganza could make me or break me, so I maxed out my credit card on the perfect Sunday dress and asked my inner child to keep her damn mouth shut.

She gets me in trouble.

On Friday we kept it casual and thanks to several glasses of Merlot I dominated the meet the parent’s shindig with no F-bombs or any slips of the tongue. I was golden. I even gave my boyfriend a pass to leave me alone the next morning. I had this. Or so I thought.


With trepidation and a killer headache, I joined the ladies only club in the kitchen.

The women were discussing cooking within the restrictions of a low cholesterol diet. Hearing words like canola and saturated fats made me want to check out…pronto.

I didn’t give a frog’s fat ass.

Instead, I jumped right in with a big fat lie.

Cooking is one of my favorite pastimes. 


But his Mother bought it. She smiled and nodded her head with approval.

Dear Lord…

If I can just make it through this conversation, I promise to learn everything there is to know about cooking. Amen.

Considering that I was starting from zero that would be quite an endeavor. My mother scrambled eggs in the microwave, ok? My family’s idea of meal prep was listing off all of the nearby restaurants and choosing one.

I completely sat out on the “satay” discussion.

I felt like my silence was getting suspicious. The men were filing in, and my husband’s presence was making me nervous.

I had to think…fast.

When his mother pulled a fresh batch of homemade biscuits from the oven and asked my sister in law to grab her favorite margarine spread I totally panicked.

That should have been me!!! Damnit…You have to do something! Fast!

As she reached for the low cholesterol spread, I had an idea.

While I knew nothing of cooking, I considered my knowledge of condiments to be top notch.

“Ooooooh… I LOOOOVE Country Crock.” I proclaimed with a little too much enthusiasm,” My grandmother loved it too. Country Crock reminds me of her.”

I realized the slip a moment too late.

You know, it’s funny how one single letter can completely change a word.

You see, in my rush to join I dropped the essential “r” in “crock.”

And I brought my late Southern Baptist grandmother into the mix.

Yep, I told my Mother in Law how much I loved country cock and that it reminded me of my grandmother…

I wanted to die.



I recall looking out the kitchen window and thinking, Well, it’s been nice to know you, but I’m going to live with Satan now.

It felt as if all of the blood in my body was rushing to my head and I had to take a seat which meant I had to turn around and look at everybody.

You know that face a man makes when they’ve been kicked in the balls? That’s kind of how my husband looked except that he was silently laughing his ass off.

His expression said, “Oh my God you just said cock in front of my mom and holy shit that is the funniest thing I have ever heard.”

Angie’s face turned a shade of death is coming burgundy, but I didn’t look for long.

The shame kept me from making eye contact.

My mother in law showed no reaction other than never using that brand of margarine again. Ever.


After cock-gate I just wanted the weekend to be over. But nooo. As if the embarrassment of my Freudian slip wasn’t enough, on Sunday as a special Mother’s Day treat, the church choir debuted their new robes. Guess who’s dress was a perfect match? This chicks! Yep, had the church choir accepted cock loving liar’s who couldn’t sing, I would have been able to blend right in.

Happy Mother’s Day!