My Mom and I are so different from each other in just about every way possible, aside from our passive-aggressive behavior. She loves to shop. She likes shirts that have glittery, sparkly things all over them. She owns hundreds of pairs of shoes. She is a make-up whore, both in buying and in wearing it. I only like shopping when I know exactly what I want. I rarely wear anything more than mascara and for special occasions, I’ll add some eyeliner and lip gloss.

Let me make our differences really, truly stand out. When I was 5 years old, we took a family vacation to Florida. While staying in a Holiday Inn, everyone was awoken by knocks on their doors at 3AM. Someone had called the hotel and said there was a bomb planted in the building. We were told to evacuate immediately – which sort of should go without saying when it comes to explosives. People were chaotic and scared. This was long before calling in bomb threats became fashionable. My Mom went into the bathroom to fix her hair and make-up before evacuating. I shit you not. She didn’t understand that if there truly was a bomb [which there wasn't], she would have blown so far to bits that her hair probably would have landed in a different county than where her face might have landed. It was more important that she looked “good” to the hundreds of other people awoken from dead sleep- the ones who were all standing outside in various stages of undress with blankets wrapped around them, protecting their kids from being blown up.

I feel that even to this day, she has difficulty believing I’m her daughter. Usually, it’s the kid that wonders if they are adopted. In our case, I’m pretty sure my Mom thinks her baby might have been switched at birth.

And still, she tries to make me into her mini-me. Every birthday she gives me a gift card for a store that she shops in. Every Christmas, I receive gifts that scream her. For example, I always receive a black purse which is nothing like the style of purses I’ve chosen over the years and at least one purple, sparkly article of clothing that I wouldn’t be caught dead in. Oh, and it’s usually one size too small.

I’ve given up trying to give gentle hints about the things she gives me as gifts, because I wouldn’t want to seem ungrateful. I mean, I know I sound like a bitch right now and I am grateful, but… really? She once gave me a Thighmaster for Christmas. No joke. Every birthday and Christmas I’m smacked in the face by the reality of how little she must know about me and my closet bulges with unworn purple sweaters and purses.

My birthday is coming up soon. I’m tempted to say to her, “Hey Mom, if you insist on giving me a gift, why not get me a bag of weed and some Morningstar Farms burgers?” Because those are two things I’ll actually enjoy and use.

I am, however, spending the morning cleaning out a closet to make room for another purple, sparkly sweater… just in case.