Mother's Day Considering that it's Mother's Day, I shouldn't be thinking this, let alone writing it, but I am so furious at my mother that words fail me.

Actually, the words "Kill her" comes to mind, but I would only mean that figuratively, and I don't want to confuse anybody into thinking that I mean that literally, especially the police.

So, ixnay on the illkay ommay, OK?

Let's move on.

I invited her and dad over for a nice Mother's Day meal together. I made a nice shrimp and veggie medley sautéed in white wine, with saffron rice topped with salted peanuts, and a spinach soufflé so light it nearly levitated.

The meal was a hit all around, and when we were all just about finished up, my mom says, "So, tell me, Bernie, have you met any nice girls at work?"

She pulls this crap every Mother's Day, because she knows it's the one day of the year I can't scream my head off at her. She knows how to use Mother's Day immunity to her advantage.

"No, mom, no nice girls," I tell her. "A few bad ones maybe." I laugh.

"That can work," says my dad.

"OK, boys, enough with the jokes. I'm serious, Bernie. You should be dating, a nice boy like you. You spend too much time in front of that computer. You need to get out and enjoy yourself."

"I'll start dating when I want," I respond. "I just don't want to right now."

"Well," says my mother, "you shouldn't dawdle. Not everybody can just find a date anytime they want. Some people need a running start."

"A running start?" I ask. "Dad, do you know what she's talking about?"

"No idea," says Dad.

"I just mean you have to get in the game," my mom says. "You gotta be in it, to win it. If you don't get out there and socialize, you'll get stuck in a rut, and before you know it, you'll be more content to be alone than to share your life with someone special."

"What's so bad about that?" I ask.

I look at my dad. He shrugs.

"Bernie, dear," my mom says, as she grabs my hand. "Now, I hope you don't get mad at me..."

"Mom?! What did you do?!," I said, as I pulled my hand away.

She was looking awfully guilty about something. My heart started racing.

After a brief pause, she seemed to muster up some confidence, looked me in the eyes, and said, "Bernie, I posted a personal ad in your name on the computer. (My mom calls the Internet, and everything you can do on a computer, "the computer.")

Raising my voice, I said, "You what?!"

My dad shoots me a warning glare. I hang my head.

"It's for your own good, Bernie. You're a big boy, and you need a big push now and then."

"But mom, I'm not really into dating right now, and besides, you don't know the kind of person I'm looking for."

"Well," says my mother, "I would think that you wouldn't mind meeting a nice young lady. What's the harm in that?"

"Mom," I sigh. "I can't believe you did this."

"You can thank me for at it your wedding, Bernie boy." That's her pet name for me. "Bernie Boy."

She used my Dell to show me the personal ad that she posted in my name. I was mortified! She refused to give me the logon information, so I can't even delete it!

As soon as my mom and dad left to go back to the trailer, I went into my bedroom, closed the door, and screamed the "Eff word" loud enough to make a couple of my Star Wars figures fall off their shelves.

So, you want to see my mother's idea of a personal ad that she thinks that I'd post about myself? I'll bet you do. Go ahead and have your laughs. It only makes me realize how little she knows me. As if it weren't humiliating enough, she used her pet name for me as my user name.

Without any further bitching, it gives me great displeasure to present:

BernieBoy: Looking For A Nice Young Lady.

Crawling under a rock,
- Bernie  ¶ 5:08 PM