My email is currently being barraged by about ninety thousand different Mother's Day promotions. "Toast your Mom with Kahlua!" "Toshiba + Mother's Day = special gifts for the modern mom!" "Enjoy Mother's Day with this special all-new Curious George episode celebrating Hispanic heritage!"
Oh, and my personal favorite: "We all know how busy a mom’s life can be, but this Mother's Day, take time to educate your mom about the treatment options available for vaginal dryness."
("Hi, Mom? Oh, not too bad, and you? Great, great. So listen, I just wanted to chat with you for a minute about the moisture levels of your vagina. Would you describe it as 'Tropical' or 'Mojave'?")
While pampering my vagina with a luxurious unguent DOES sound attractive, Mother's Day pitches have it all wrong. I don't want the newest gadget, an overpriced bouquet of flowers, a piece of jewelry that will just get encrusted with peanut butter, or a humorous t-shirt that says, "SECRETARY OF TRANSPORTATION."
Here's exactly what I want, in loving, pornographic detail:
On a Friday morning, after I've carried out my usual routine of getting up before the rest of the household to get a start on my articles for the day, my husband says I should go ahead and shower because he's staying home with the kids. After I linger over a rare uninterrupted hair drying session, he tells me to pack for an overnight trip.
"Just me?" I say, with hope shining in my eyes.
"Just you," he responds, because he totally understands that what I'm dying for is some time to be completely, 100% selfish, and do whatever I want, whenever I want, with absolutely no regard to anyone else around me.
I arrive at my destination, a plush nearby hotel in the heart of the city. I'm warmly welcomed by the front desk, and they give me my itinerary: I'm to head up to my room and relax, then I have an afternoon of spa delights awaiting me.
For the next few hours I am buffed, polished, massaged, oiled, painted, and steamed, until every muscle in my body feels like it's made out of tender macaroni noodles, which I do NOT have to prepare for anyone. Blissed out, I float back to my room where I take a ridiculously sluttish nap, buried under crisp, clean sheets, without a single small face pressed against mine saying, "MOMMY YOU GETTIN' UP?"
That night, I take myself out to dinner, where I order five courses of deliciously high-calorie food, which I didn't have to cook, served on plates I don't have to clean, followed by a decadent dessert I don't have to share.
I set my alarm for 6 a.m., just so I can wake up, look at my phone, and laugh delightedly before turning that shit to OFF. Hours later, I order a sumptuous room service breakfast, which I consume while propped up with fluffy pillows. I slowly flip my way through an entire stack of trashy magazines, read the last 100 pages of the book that's been on my nightstand for a month, eat an enormous jelly donut, and spend three hours lingering over my shower.
Eventually I arrive back at home, totally refreshed and serene. The vertical line that's been deepening between my eyebrows has magically disappeared, I radiate patience and maternal love, even my teeth look whiter. My children squeal with delight and throw their arms around me, and as I hold them close, I notice that the entire house has been cleaned, top to bottom. I sigh with contentment: best Mother's Day EVER.
Then Timothy Olyphant steps out of the shadows, clad only in a marshal's hat and a holster. I mean, as long as we're fantasizing, and all.
Okay, okay, if my kids give me a handmade card and a jelly-smeared kiss, I GUESS I'll be happy enough. But tell me, if you could have anything for Mother's Day, what would you choose?