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Jim Walker: Happy Day, Mom — and it’s all your fault

Don't Take Me Seriously

Posted: May 11, 2012 1:55 a.m.
Updated: May 11, 2012 1:55 a.m.

"It’s all your fault, Mom.”

Remember how all of your offspring used to dump that on you at times?

Ah, the good old days.

Of course, it usually wasn’t your fault, it was ours — but we only realized that years after the finger-pointing.

However, today, under the banner of impending Mother’s Day, I offer you the purest gift I can give: true insight. And here, crowned with the shining halo of full justification, I accuse you of major wrongdoing.

You ruined me, Mom.

You see, I always wanted to be “stoic,” which carries such definitions as “impassive, unemotional and uncomplaining,” but I never even came close.

(Those who know me are now nodding and chuckling.)

And it’s your fault, Mom.

I mean, despite truly desiring to emulate such masculine role models as John Wayne, and express my deepest feelings through terse one-liners, such as “Not hardly,” I somehow, pretty much end up doing the opposite.

Nope, I’m anything but stoic, Mom, and it’s your fault.

I operate under the philosophy that if I have a problem, and I energetically and emphatically complain about it to folks, it becomes their problem — and I can go have a beer.

Relief is just a rant away.

The truth is, I have mostly gotten into trouble for being the opposite of stoic, and have been accused of being “talkative,” “rambling” and downright “whiny.” But I prefer the more attractive “loquacious.”

Did I mention it’s your fault, Mom?

I have also been accused of perpetually offering too much information, wearing my emotions on my sleeve and, thusly, spending too much time exploring my feminine side.

And, herein, I blame you, Mom.

Yup, you, who were my primary adult role model through my teenage years, permanently warped me with all of your frankness, tenderness, empathy, insight, high ideals and genuine concern for others.

You would talk to me about pretty much anything, and let me do the same without recrimination — as long as I wasn’t endangering innocent people or breaking any major laws (which was at least 10 percent of the time).

And, no, Mom, I’m not angling for a bigger chunk of the inheritance.

This is me, blaming you, for making me unbearably open, ridiculously compassionate and annoyingly forthright — things, I might add, my daughters are now afflicted with — so, jeeze, Ma, this deal is never going to end.

You should be ashamed of yourself. I mean, look what your example has led me to. I am now pushing the infections of self-evaluation, fair play and do-unto-others in the media, corrupting billions of otherwise happy minds. 

You’re a regular Typhoid Mary of touchy-feely.

Holy frijoles.  

I have to jump out of airplanes and wrestle sharks just so guys will call me a guy and let me lose money to them at poker.

It’s the same reason I take on major engine repairs with just a hammer.

I’m tryin’ to live this thing down, Ma.

Now, in case you tuned out at “It’s all your fault,” Mom, this is a thinly disguised tribute to you as a parent and a person — and I hope other mothers who read it realize how their influence on their children has made the world a better place.

Of course, this is also my lame attempt to make up for a lack of flowers and a late card this Mother’s Day.

How am I doin’?

I mean, we all offer what we can, right? And if a twisted outlook, sappy sentimentality and self-deprecation happen to be the talents I possess instead of money-making skills, well, that’s that, and you git what you git.

Hey, that kinda sounds like a John Wayne-ism.

And, FYI, John Wayne had to create a whole persona to overcome the gift his mother gave him. I mean, she named him Marion, fer gad’s sake. It’s a lot to live down.

Well, Happy Mother’s Day, Mom, and all the rest of you Pilgrims … awha.

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