It’s So My Mom.

… Into their horrificly opportunist mother Nadya with a sense of entitlement that’s probably large as the cow herself.

That’s the big hoopla here, right? The precedent set by Sulemen’s ravenous sucking on the public teet?

What about the more immediate impact she’s going to have on her children’s outlooks? Anyone want to project how much money her brood of 14 will burn through if they continue her communistic lifestyle (she gets $490 a month in federal food stamps and support for her three kids with disabilities)?

Check out her family Web site erected about a day ago. You can send a donation here, or leave a nasty comment here. Comments don’t show up anywhere on the site–wonder why?

You can also harass the Los Angeles-based Killeen Furtney Group for building the wretched Web site, no doubt pro-bono (I’ve sent an e-mail inquiring). I’d like to see how much they’ll make in the way of donations. Unfortunately they’re not compelled to disclose since they aren’t government engineered or forcibly publicly funded.

I can see the book from one of those fourteen kids, in 30 years: “It Takes a Village: How I discovered the joys of having ten-plus kids in a civilized society.”

To lighten the mood a little, here’s a brilliant, self-explanatory interlude from the Huffington post: “Top Ten Suggested Names for the Nadya Suleman Babies A to H.”

A perfect example of how I will never, ever turn completely into my mom (I mean, really, these interludes offer me a shiny beacon of sanity and salvation).

Los Angeles-based writer Seth Grahame-Smith will release new book “Pride and Prejudice and Zombies” on April 15. The succinct publisher summary: “Pride and Prejudice and Zombies features the original text of Jane Austen’s beloved novel with all-new scenes of bone-crunching zombie action.” (Jane Austen must be turning in her grave; she’s actually co-billed with Grahame-Smith on the cover, like she consented to this.)

My mom would have reacted like most of these women on Trashionista. I just recently learned of her love of Victorian, Elizabethan period pieces. That fits. But I honestly haven’t seen my mom read anything but the Bible and fashion magazines since, well, ever.

Conversely, I have a deep-rooted dread for the original chick-lit.

Whenever I’m dragged to Anne Hathaway’s latest silver screen period piece, I interject my own Mystery Science Theatre 3000-type dialogue to help bring the storyline into the 21st century (and cure my boredom). The last one she was in also featured a lad with an unfortunately stereotypical English face–that sort of retarded, drooling look–so I took to exclaiming, “Cousin Gooba [Goober]!” at every one of his cameos.

My friend Shanel was not happy. But at least I distinguished my singular and autonomous identity.

Image by egg on stilts via Flickr

My mother usually found something to dish disparagingly about most people—except, of course, for her perfect, God-fearing [read: holier-than-thou] friends. MY friends, however, always had foibles.

Take, for instance, a middle school friend that we’ll call Beronique. My mother was actually friends with hers and did a little work for her family, during which time I’d commiserate with Bero. I didn’t see her much after high school; we attended different institutions.

I had thought my mother’s association with hers would have been enough to cull a relatively benign impression. But that still didn’t stop my mother from referring to Bero as “that little slut” years later.

“Mom!” I said, not even knowing, firsthand, if this friend was a bed hopper—but sure that I never mentioned the subject to my mom. (Come to think of it, she was kind of kinky. Rumor had it she “practiced” fellatio on a male friend. Not sure if that counts. Maybe mom did know best.)

Yes, my mother was great at snap judgments and villainizations. I thought I always saw the best in people. Until now.

Strange things leave a lasting impression on my nerves these days: The omnipresent condo maintenance man that always offers a friendly “hello” (I know what he’s doing. He interrupted my workout once to say “hi”! The sex-crazed beast!). The “harmless” old lady beer columnist whose articles sometimes supplant my food reviews in the Indy alt-weekly (How can she not be allergic to alcohol at her age? And what does she need money for, anyway?). Random, really obese people that get in my way.

This is scary. Someone get the Prozac.

The handful of people who read this blog semi-quasi regularly (and I’m not talking about the people who pop in trolling the Web for “mom sex” [damn sickos]) know that my mom does not appreciate my disclosing personal details about her and my family. My boyfriend gets sensitive about things I write, too.

I think this great video on Momversation.com about “Censoring Your Blog” with high-profile bloggers Heather Armstrong and Rebecca Woolf from Dooce and Girl’s Gone Child brings up a lot of good points.

Image by John A. Debay via Flickr

Women have been sharing their original experiences about becoming their moms via interviews I’m doing for my book on that topic. I’m really digging these anecdotes. Here is one funny passage from a woman in Mill Valley, California:

“I promised that when I was a grown up I would just serve chips and beer if I had parties and wouldn’t waste so much time and effort preparing tons of yummy special dishes for everyone–this is my true downfall, as I’ve been known to cook the same multi-course meal in 2 different versions (traditional Jewish, including all the schmaltz, chopped liver, matzoh balls and chicken soup, etc.–and then doing the whole thing in a VEGAN version!).”

Many currents of similarity are emerging from my research on women becoming their mothers for my upcoming book. Among them: When you start to do things your mother would, your boyfriend will call you on it–and by your mother’s name.

Don’t do this, men. You wouldn’t shock your girlfriend/wife/baby momma with a Tazer, would you? Then don’t do the verbal equivalent.

My boyfriend calls me “Little Lonia,” a derivitive of my mom’s name, which also alliterates nicely with “loony,” “loonbag” and “loonbaggery.”

Image by vectorlyme via Flickr

In doing research for my upcoming book on women becoming their mothers, I’ve come across a dilemma.

Some of our turning into our mothers is nature, some is nurture. But how much is scapegoating?

I ask this because a lot of the traits that we criticize as coming from our moms are things that are, for lack of a better term, “bad.” I can relate to this: I think my own obsessive compulsions–which have manifested in everything from my weight to preoccupying myself with my boyfriend’s masturbation schedule–stem from my mother’s OCD (hers manifested in the myriad rules and regulations surrounding her home, children and husband).

But then, I could also say it’s just me: I have a history of fixations and phobias that extend back to grade school. So am I turning into my mom, or just blaming her?

This observation is echoed in another girl I interviewed, who said she was amazed that she condemned her 16-year-old stepdaughter’s scant clothing as “inappropriate,” a word her mother would have used, though the 30-year-old, tattooed mother of 2 led a wild life and certainly doesn’t think of herself as uptight.

On further reflection, she thinks this reaction might actually have to do with her own sexual abuse. When she was 14, her 50-something uncle molested her. So, she reasons, is she just afraid that she’ll lose her older husband to her stepdaughter’s friends? Or just passing on the judgement her mother subliminally passed down to her?

Can you relate to this? Is there an element of blame or escapism here? How can we tell the difference? I can’t decide for myself.

Image by Getty Images via Daylife

Maybe I’d feel differently if I were a mother, but listening to the whole ruckus about Ty Inc. possibly having fashioned two darker skinned dolls after the first daughters–so what? I detest how politicians use their children–intentionally or not–to project themselves as a wholesome family unit, then scream that they’re off-limits when it behooves them. It just doesn’t work that way.

And these girls are better role models than the other choices out there (ahem, Miley Cyrus).

"Maria, get the jingle, hellieeghhhaa"

Who says procrastination and self-absorption doesn’t pay? I encountered this “Mom Bomb” while checking my Google rankings–Google “Blog about becoming my mom” and I’m the No. 2 hit! This post from the Mom Blog Network was the No. 1 return. The writer talks about how she can’t stop singing jingles in response to everyday questions and random occurrences, a la her mom.

That would be really annoying for everyone involved.

Image via Wikipedia

Finally! From catnmus:

“My mother would leave the TV remote on the table (in front of her) and reach over and press the buttons with the thing still on the table. Instead of picking it up in her hand to press the buttons. Sometimes she would even use her other hand to steady it on the table as she did it. Every time I do this, I think of her, and it comforts me. She passed away from breast cancer 18 months ago.”