On the occasion of my 18th birthday, at approximately 6:45 in the morning, my mother burst into my bedroom, clad in a flannel nightgown, a boombox nestled under one arm. As I shook off the last remnants of sleep, she plopped the radio down on my desk, fired it up and smiled at me triumphantly as Alice Cooper's "18" blared from the speakers.

My mother then engaged in a rather impressive display of air guitar, thrashing around the room with wild abandon. At one point, Mom even jumped on my bed and bounced up and down a couple of times, all the while screaming along: "I'M EIGHT-TEEN!!!! AND I LIKE IT!!!! I'M EIGHT-TEEN!!!! I THINK I LIKE IT!!!!"

And that's what I got for my birthday.

For those misguided souls who barrage me with e-mail every week, questioning my sanity or denouncing my sex appeal or generally wondering what the hell is wrong with me: there. That's it. That's as good an explanation as any.

Not that I mind, of course.

This little anecdote returns to me now because of the rare juxtaposition of Mother's Day and my 21st birthday, the latter now only a few days away. Generally speaking, I'm more susceptible to dogged self-evaluation than binge drinking, which leaves me with quite a dazed expression as a I stumble toward this mythical crossroads in my life.

But fear not, dear reader, this is not a wistful, sentimental "What Does the Future Hold?" column. No, this is more of the "How the Hell Did I Get So Weird?" variety.

A few fun facts about Rob and his mother:

n The first complete sentence my mother ever taught me, at about 18 months old, was "Disco sucks, rock and roll forever." Some prominent relatives of mine still won't speak to me.

n My mother's family used to gather together every Thanksgiving and eat dinner in my Grandma's basement, over a pool table covered with wooden boards. One year my mother decided to try something she saw in a Beverly Hillbillies episode. For the first five minutes of the meal, everyone had to pass the dishes to each other using pool cues.

Give me a call, I'll show you the pictures.

n My mother claims devout loyalty to the Cleveland Indians, spending many a weeknight lounging on the living room couch, shouting creative epitaphs ("C'MON!! BEAT THEIR DRAWERS OFF!!!") at no one in particular.

As it turns out, her actions are just as electric when she's actually at the ballpark. During a playoff game a few years back, shortly after Roberto Alomar spit on an umpire, Mom led a seething chorus of boos as Alomar stepped to the plate. When that wasn't enough, Mom turned around and convinced the people in her entire section to turn their backs on Alomar simultaneously. Portions of this footage aired on CNN Headline News. The next day, as I glumly trudged along the corridors of my high school, I had the following conversation many, many times:

ROB'S FRIEND: "Hey, dude, what's happenin'??"

ROB: "Nothin' much, man. My mom's ass was on CNN."

My mother and I reminisced over these bygone incidents this weekend, recalling all the idiosyncratic ways my mother endeavors to shape me into a strange, enigmatic human being.

Now that three hours of reckless driving separate us for nine months out of the year, my mother's influence is confined to those weekly instances when she receives a frantic phone call from her son, who desperately needs help with some social or academic or relationship crisis. Mom listens patiently for hours, usually consolidating her advice into a single, decisive sentence:

"You've got to keep throwing stuff against the wall until something sticks."

But this column really isn't about nostalgia, either. This column details my struggle to buy this woman a Mother's Day card.

These days, my homemade cards resemble incoherent ramblings splattered with green marker and copious amounts of glitter. Thus, I had no choice but to stand before Kroger's Great Wall of Mother's Day Cards, daunted by its resplendent glory.

What the hell was I going to do? Mom doesn't go for correspondence of the mushy, "You light up my life" variety. Most others are too cheesy or too inappropriate - talking bunnies, over-the-hill jokes, the occasional "dogs playing poker" montage. Where could I find a mass-produced holiday message suitable for a woman of such distinct character?

In the end, I'm not sure if I did. A "Far Side" card, I believe, showing a large brick building, flames bursting from the roof and the windows, flowing down a river at the peak of a massive waterfall. The sign on the building reads "Crisis Management Center." On the inside I tossed a few words about my gratitude for her patience in dealing with all my stupid college nonsense.

Then I bought her some Mounds bars (Mom likes coconut).

And so, I emerge from this most recent Mother's Day experience somewhat shakily - I fulfilled my requirement, but not with the same creativity with which my mother fulfills hers. In three days I hit the big 21, a peak I undoubtedly would not have achieved without the oddball guidance of my poop-tossin', Alomar-moonin', air-guitar slingin' mother figure.

Happy Mother's Day, mom. Please keep your ass off CNN.

Harvilla can be reached at rh175696.