Mother Thinks She Knows Best

****JJ's dominant personality is taking over my blog****

My rebellion against the female stereotype started at a very early age. The battles occured when my mom tried to push me to be girly. Five years old the Barbie I got for Christmas with all her damn accessories somehow ended up clogging the upstairs toilet. Nine Years old the dainty little pink glittery dress I was supposed to wear for my birthday was found at the bottom of the cat's litter box. Thirteen years old My First Make-Up Kit melted in the microwave.

You're probably wondering why I didn't just try talking to my mom. Why can't I just explain that certain things don't appeal to me. What's with the dramatic demonstrations? Having a heart to heart with her to say how I really feel would be like trying to tell a a wild lion to try the vegan diet. I had three older brothers, so at last my mom had gotten the little princess she had always hoped for....or so she thought. Basically she ended up with four sons. JJ was a girl who liked wearing boys clothes, playing with boys toys, and hanging out with boys. The more I resisted being turned into her life sized doll, the more she tried.

I don't like being pushed into a corner by anyone. And if you even try I'll knock your fuckin head off. Despite what you may already think of me I'm really not this agressive bulldog bitch. This is just a giant pet peeve of mine. For example just because I liked playing sports in the dirt I was labeled a Tomboy. It's this incessant need everyone has to catagorize, label, and neatly place everything in a box. I'm not last night's left overs, I'm a person damnit. And in all honestly how many of us completely check off every box in our supposed catagory anyways?

This was why my mom and I would constantly butt heads. She made a very wrong assumption that my lack of penis meant I would behave a certain way. I remember the varied attempts to get me to help out in the kitchen. There go those gender roles again. My three older brothers were just as perfectly capable to play into her Martha Stewart fantasies. Not my thing. And instead of accepting that she continued to push and push and push. Stir this, mix this, grab the gloves and take this out of the oven. Won't you be a dear?

So I guess it's fair to say that when I previously told you I didn't have mommy or daddy issues I lied. I try not to make a habit of lying by the way, but it's hard to not only recognize your personal defects let alone share them with others. My dad and I are just fine, always have been. That's probably because he doesn't have a giant stick up his ass like my mom. I think my personality is an extreme opposite version of hers because after so much pressure to be a mini clone of her I went running the other way.

She was confused at the second hand furniture in my apartment. Not that she did my taxes, but she knew I could afford what she considered better. I'm not an out of the catalogue designer kind of girl. I grew up in a house that felt like a musuem: always use coasters, decor that coordinated with the furnture that coordinated with the rug, don't wear your shoes in doors. I valued comfort over style. If a couch soothed my tired ass after a long day in retail hell it was good enough for me. Looks only came into play with the guys I screwed around with.

And speaking of the men in my life. My mom was always questioning when I would settle down and get married like my brothers had. She would shake her head and sigh stating "I just don't get it, you are such a pretty girl." My looks had nothing to do with why I wasn't married and everything to do with my active sex life. Don't you see mom, I am putting my best assets to use. I haven't done anything like her aside from sitting down while I pee my entire life, so why would I start now?

At nearly thirty years old I find myself still trying to explain myself to my mom. Currently I'm trying to figure out a tactful way to get my spare key back from her. It was given to her in case of emergenicies, her idea and not mine. Little did I know at the time that she had ulterior motives to drop by unnanounced when I wasn't home. How do you know you ask? Subtle clues like the display of wedding magazines on my kitchen table. Or the Pier One throw pillows on my couch. And how can I forget the casserole left in my fridge with reheating instructions attached.

None of those sweet little surprises compares to the time she walked in on me and a guy. We were actually going at it on my kitchen floor, I don't always make it to the bedroom. And I was just at the point of climax when I hear, "Honey are you home?" Followed by a shriek, teh clack of high heels, then a door slam. Shortly thereafter a soft penis and the end of my good time.

Would it have been nice to have formed some sort of bond with her? Sure, but some things just aren't meant to be and I'm okay with that. I still love her in the way you're supposed to love your parents I just don't like her very much. After all these years I have come to realize we are foreigners to one another with very little comprehension for the other person's language or customs.