My mother has taught me many things over the years. Maybe not how to properly apply makeup (and as a result, neither she or I wear any . . . and we look at my sister in amazement, wondering where on earth she learned how to brush on just the right hint of blush without looking like a circus clown). It’s okay—I don’t feel my life is lacking due to my inability to use a mascara wand without poking myself in the eye. She taught me more important stuff, like:

People will judge you by the company you keep. 
I wish this wasn’t true, but it is. This is why I had to stop hanging out with trolls. They’re not good for my karma. And pimps. I’m sorry, if you’re a pimp, we can’t be friends. Mom says no.

If you don’t like how something tastes, you don’t have to eat it. But taste it first. 
This was quite a change from my youth, when Mom’s general rule was “You’ll choke down what I cooked, and I'd better hear a 'thank you' for it!” (Also a rule in my house to this day.) Believe me, it was quite a revelation when I discovered that my mother had stopped eating black jellybeans. “I don’t like them,” she said. (Neither do I, but the genetics behind why my mother and I have the exact same preferences in both food and shoes is a conversation for another time.)
I parroted back her mantra from long ago. “But—but—that’s wasteful!”
 “Jellybeans are cheap enough. Try every flavor, of course. But if you don’t like  ’em, toss ’em. Or leave them for your father.” 
Wise words.

Stop complaining that you’re turning into your mother. 
It’s when you look in the mirror and see Grandma looking back that panic is warranted.

If you want something done, learn how to do it. 
I should point out that this is something both Mom and Dad have advocated all my life. Because of their guidance, I have in my lifetime: soldered a pipe to fix a leak; changed a car battery; applied for, cut through red tape for, and received a waiver to both install a septic system and drill a well on a 1200-square-foot piece of property in an ecologically protected area; sewn pillows, made my own pants, and patched a couch; and laid down new flooring. Piece of cake!

If you can’t do it yourself, ask your father. 
But only if you’re really, really sure you can’t do it yourself. I had to turn to Dad when my water heater gave up the ghost (all over my basement). But I was able to watch and help him install the new one, so I still learned a little bit.

Express yourself with words. 
Mom says she’s not a writer, but she sure does have a fabulous way with words. One of my favorite family expressions comes right from Mom: “Move your face closer so I can slap you.” It’s a joke in our family, but when I want to express my displeasure with someone, these are exactly the right words to use. Complaining because you’ve lost ten pounds and now you’re too thin? Sad that the BMW you just bought doesn’t have butt massagers installed in the seats? Is life just too darn good to you? Move your face closer.

Don’t feed the mogwai after midnight. 
I think Mom taught me this. Nope, wait, that was Gremlins. Mom said, “Don’t talk to that scruffy guy in the trench coat—he's a flasher.” Also a good rule to follow.

Speak softly, and in Connecticut, you know you can get a permit to carry a concealed weapon, right, dear? Ah, Mom. You don’t mess around with her.

There are other women, of course, who have also had a part in raising me: my Aunt Joanne (“The company of cats is often preferable to the company of people”), my Aunt Bea (“Why have one cat when seven will do?”) and my Aunt Joan (“Don’t look at me like that—all of your aunts are cat people, apparently”), for instance. Even my sister (“You’re putting on too much blush! Stop! Sto—fine, if you want to go out looking like a clown, go ahead.”) Happy Mother’s Day to all of the wise women in my life.

I am not a parent. Why? The reason for this is not really any of your business. However, being childless, I do feel that I am an expert on parenting. Why? Because that's how obnoxiously delusional I really am.
I've discovered some alarming things about being a parent that are enough to make me never want to be one. Becoming a parent makes you completely lose your mind. Here, let me share:

1.      As a parent, you lose focus on what's really important. My sister, for instance, was furious with me when I taught her then-five-year-old son the words to the South Park theme song. Did she care that her young son had mastered complex words like "temptation" and "vagina," clearly indicating that he was a genius? Heck, no. She complained about "inappropriateness," "he's too young to know what the 'p' word and the 'v' word are," and some other nonsense. Her son was practically a virtuoso, and she didn't care. Also, I wasn't allowed to babysit any more.

2.      Becoming a parent makes you lose your sense of humor. My sister-in-law did not find it one bit amusing when I hand-crafted pillows shaped like bloodstains for her young son and daughter. These delightful keepsakes make it look like you're bleeding from a gaping head wound when you lie on them, and my niece especially liked the velvety red fabric I'd used to create these wonders. Funny, right? My sister-in-law didn't think so. Also, I'm not allowed to babysit anymore.

3.      Being a parent makes you resentful. I can't tell you how many times my sister has shot me a look of pure death when I come over, be my usual 'cool aunt' self, encourage my older nephew to guzzle two cans of Arizona Iced Tea and give the Stone Cold Steve Austin double-finger salute, applaud my younger nephew when he's able to attach glow-in-the-dark dog poo to his forehead and keep it there for a full four minutes, and then leave. It's like she's jealous of my coolness or something. Also, I'm not allowed to watch wrestling with them or shop at Spencer's Gifts for them any more.

4.      Being a parent makes you mean. My sister-in-law did not appreciate it at all the time I described to her then-six-year-old-son the exact ingredients of the sausage he was eating. I thought it was educational. She felt it was disgusting, and made me apologize to my nephew when he started crying and questioning exactly what had happened to Wilbur  at the end of Charlotte's Web. Why she's coddling those children is beyond me. Also, I'm not allowed to share meals with them any more.

5.      Becoming a parent makes you change your priorities. Not in a good way, either. One time I called my sister to see if she wanted to cruise the bars with me to pick up strange men (I was single then) and she not only implied that I was out of my mind, but also made me apologize to both her husband and her infant son for even asking her such a thing. Also, I'm not allowed to call her after 10 p.m. any more.

So there you have it. Clearly, being a parent makes you crazy. This is why I want no part of it. And think about it: do you really want someone like me procreating? Because rest assured, nobody in my family is particularly upset that I haven't.