Shannon-igans.

After a sleepless night trying to recreate my mom's lasagna in my head and an uneasy morning trying to decide if my aunt and cousin were worth the recreation, I ventured out of doors and into the rigors of the holiday.
I opted against running, as traffic on Mother's Day defies logic and law and can only be described as panicky. I kept my head down on the way to the store, assuming everyone I passed was either too grumpy or too drunk to make eye contact. I braved the florist and the chocolateer. I came home with an armload of daisies, truffles, ricotta cheese and cigarettes and worked some speedy magic set to Rhapsody's Classic Soul Station. I juggled phone calls from San Diego, Pittsburgh, Grand Island and one sheepish Canadian who protested that she would not be bringing the wine she promised for toasting because she'd had too much last night and didn't want to drink today. I tried in vain to prevent that same Canadian from baring all and tanning on my front steps while she discussed the attributes of hemp in front of my landlady and her parents. I did not start any arguments. I smoked too many cigarettes, had too few cuccidatti, drank just enough vodka tonic, and laughed myself silly on the porch until late-late.

It's now one thirty and all good mothers are safely in bed and all lovely cousins are securely back over their borders and I remain uncontested in my family as Best Daughter Ever.