It's no secret, I have a terrible mouth. A dirty, fucking rotten mouth. I curse too much and it drives my mom crazy. Even though I very rarely curse around her, she absolutely knows just how much I swear like a sailor. Sheā€™s read my stuff in the paper, sheā€™s not stupid.

So anyway, years ago, in 2004, I wrote this review of the (terribly terrible) movie 13 Going on 30. I ended it like this:

So basically, as you could probably gather on your own, this movie is dumb, dull, and lacking any sort of charm. And besides that, the stupid 13 Going on 30 promo package that the movie people sent got stupid "wishing dust" all over my stupid desk. Fucking glitter.

My dad thought this review was hilarious. And every time he saw me, for months afterwards, heā€™d say ā€œglitterā€ and laugh. It stuck. For my dad and I, ā€œglitterā€ became code for ā€œfuckā€ or ā€œshitā€ or whatever else we couldnā€™t say when my mom was around. Drop a plate and break it? "Oh, glitter." Annoyed with traffic? "Glitter!"

I always assumed my mom never knew what we were talking about. Sheā€™d just roll her eyes and think we were being stupid. We were. It's what my dad and I do.

Last Christmas, like the traditional, undivorced happy family we are, we all woke up early at 6 am on Christmas morning and exchanged presents and laughed and drank hot chocolate and ate the mini oranges in our stockings (no, seriously, itā€™s how weā€™ve done it for 28 yearsā€¦ weā€™re a fucking Hallmark card). As I started to unwrap one small package from my stocking my mom started gigglingā€¦

I suspiciously continued to unwrap it... and started laughing hysterically myself.

She got me a silly little wooden Christmas ornament that simply says ā€œglitterā€, which is basically my momā€™s way of giving me a silly little wooden Christmas ornament that says ā€œfuckā€ on it. Which, I think, is completely awesome.

I fucking love my mom.