How to be Facebook friends…with your Mom

I have one of those “cool” moms. She wasn’t quite as awesome as Amy Koehler in Mean Girls, never serving us virgin cocktails on a platter or trying to get in on the gossip. Oh wait, she totally did.

But she does not have implants, so parish the thought, perverator. Those things are 100% real and you bet your bra mine are going to look that good when I am her age.

Yes, I was born into the cornucopia of single-childhood to a mother who not only loves to entertain; she loves to entertain my friends. At first, this seemed annoying. She was always hangin’ around and I am pretty sure my friends liked her more than the liked me. Oh come on – the title of my blog is “Tale of a Social Narcissist,” what would ever make you think that I share attention well?

She did annoying things like try to get me to wear thongs and encourage me to wear actual pants to school instead of pajamas pants. Even on pajama pant spirit day. Side note: pajama pant spirit day? Wtf is that all about? And why did I so willingly go along with it? Don’t call me a conformist, you asshat – I’m a LIBERAL. Can you see why I would be irritated with her?

Ya, me either.

The truth is a share a lot with Momma TK, as she is known in he close-knit circle of my eighty-catrillion friends. We have a relationship that is so close to near perfection, that you will be quick to forget that time you saw us verbally-duke it out at Pallino’s or the time we got schnaukered in Las Vegas and refused to talk to each other. Those instances are too few and far between to even be mentioned…again.

We share clothes.
In fact, I came home from GU one weekend and didn’t have an appropriate outfit for the bar/party/mall/whatever lame thing I thought was cool – and she hooked it up with an adorable top and chunky belt. It was that same trip that I tried to sneak out of the house with a Nordies bag full of swag. She, wanting to be in-the-know (like mother, like daughter), poked through it recognizing a set of new sheet, a pair of Sevens and a vase. All of which she had purchased weeks prior.

We share secrets.
You think it’s weird that my Mom knows more about my sex life than you do, don’t you random person reading my blog because you are either a friend of a friend or a creepy blog stalker that apparently doesn’t have a life? (In either case, you should totally follow my blog. Kthx!) She is an encyclopedia of knowledge. And she is totally getting more than I am.

We share booze.
I was an accident. As in a big giant fluke that would have never happened without one too many salt-rimmed margaritas, on the rocks obvs. She even considered naming me Margaret Rita. My recent marg consumption has convinced me that I will not only be drunk when I conceive a child, I will also have tequila pulsing through my veins. Yum.

The other night, while we were trying to ween her back on the wagon, as the only narcotics she’s had in the past 9-months were those of a chemo nature, she stayed par with me. Me, who thinks a glass or three of wine counts as a serving of fruit. We clinked glasses in memory of my Nonnie. We poured another in honor of our awesomeness. One more, because we were thirsty. Until our previous “reintroduce slowly” plan was thrown out the window like your dignity after that last walk of shame. (Slut.) It was during our Olympic showing of wine-drinking that I saw myself in my mother.

She clinched it when she said, “He’s down with that…no pun intended.” If you know Momma TK, and you’ve paid attention, you should be able to figure that one out on your own. If you don’t know my mom and you are an illiterate pos, stop following my blog and start watching Blue Clues. Regardless of your mental-maturity, it was hilarious.

Through and through, my Mom has been a pillar of strength for me. Someone to talk me down and remind me that spending $300 on a Michael Kohrs purse is slightly illogical. To wipe my tears as I slobber all over her perfectly-paired sweater set about how my purse was stolen from the table where I left it like a drunken idiot so I could go dance. (She even cancelled my debit card for me. She cancelled the wrong one but that’s not the point.)

We share Facebook friends. With this comes tagged photos, comments and events I attend. That, kind stalkers, is unconditional love. Ah technology, you’re the best.

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