Dear Shirley...A letter for all overbearing mothers.

Dear Shirley,

We need to have a talk. I'm writing you today to help you see and understand the things you do that make me want to commit matricide (or at the least be committed). Shall we begin?

It is completely inappropriate to walk into your daughter's house, into her bedroom and shake her awake at 7 am on a weekend. Firstly, when woken up and startled I react first and ask questions later. I keep a knife under my pillow when Mike works nights, and you have no idea how close you were to being a "Shirley-kebab." Secondly, always knock. ALWAYS KNOCK! One time of walking in on Mr. Kat Lady and I's marital relations should have been more than enough warning to you about just walking in. Thirdly, you do not get to lecture me about my marital aids being out in the bedroom. It's a bedroom. That's where they are supposed to be. And it is definitely NOT where YOU are supposed to be.

I am not your therapist. If you continue to call me just to complain, cry, and vetch about Dad, I WILL start charging you. I pay for my therapy and you can too. Also, do not look at me like an idiot every time we talk about my mental illnesses. I DO need to be on medication for them, and JEEEEZZZUUUSSS does not have nearly enough Serotonin in him to correct my bipolar issues. I'm on meds. You should understand this, as you think I'm on unnecessary meds, I too think this of you! It's called Hypochondriac Munchhausen Syndrome, and you have it. A LOT.

If I sound angry, I'm not. This is more of a freedom manifesto.  I hope someday you will be well enough to write your own. And speaking of writing your own, I will NOT type any more of your assignments for journalism class. I am tired of trying to polish a turd into a crystal. Your turds are YOUR turds now.

And don't clean my house when I'm not home. I love when you help me clean, but I don't trust you to stay out of my business when I'm not watching you. Also, don't bitch at me later about how my house is dirty. Your house is so beyond dirty that there are no words. You say you need to clean it, I say you need a dumpster, a vacation, and four men with shovels. Your children and husband have already made plans for cleaning the house when the time comes. I do have to thank you on that front however. I learned how NOT to keep house. I ain't perfect, but I am doing my best.

My marriage is MY marriage. You do not get to share intimate details with friends, acquaintances, and random strangers. Sometime these random strangers actually know me. I will tell you what you can and can't share. Just ask.

I don't wear polyester pants. I haven't since you last dressed me in them. I also do not wear houndstooth slacks, acid wash jeans, and scrunchies. Don't even try to sneak them into my house. Also I do not weigh 400 pounds, so 3x and 4x are too big. 1x is plenty although I prefer a large.

I know you are trying. VERY trying. I want you to learn and grow, and step on your own two feet. You are much more than you allow yourself to be. (Just don't be more overbearing...you are plenty good at that!)  You have raised me and I have grown strong and independent. (Ok, strong and less codependent...) It's time to let go. (Please remove your claws from my tshirt...)This is the letter you should have had to write to me, not me to you. (Although I probably would have had to rewrite it anyway...)

I hope you take my words to heart, or at the very least call me to bitch about how ungrateful I am. If not, I will call you to bitch about how ungrateful I am.  Some things should never change. :)

To Learning Boundaries and Cutting Apron Strings,

Love and Laughter,
-Kat Lady