In Which I Talk About My Mom

In Which I Talk About My Mom

Next Wednesday marks a year since my mom died. Super positive way to start a post, eh? But it’s what I’m thinking about right now. What complicates matters is that my cat died the day after my birthday (back in March) and thinking about my mom makes me also think about him and it’s a vicious cycle. The other cat is acting sketch (aloof, grumpy, etc) so he’s not helpful. Shane is my rock, as per usual. Today 4 years since his dad died, so we’re not a super fun/happy household. Anyway, in honor of my mom, here’s a couple of stories about her.

When I was learning the state capitals, I made my mom help. I laid on my parents’ bed and she sat on the side to quiz me. I will never forget her gleefully calling out “Idaho, Boise!” because it was slightly off-color sounding. She loved a good kind of dirty joke. She had the best laugh.

You know what else she loved? Phallic vegetables. I got many texts of a phallic veggie or several.

When Shane moved in while we were still in college, people told my mom to cut me off financially. Because Jesus, I guess. I didn’t rely on my parents for much, anyway. Insurance, I think. We lived in a house my parents owned so Mom told them 2 things: she’s over 18, she’s an adult and that she’d rather have Shane paying her rent than living there unofficially for free.

Which doesn’t mean she approved of Shane/our relationship right away. I was too young to be so involved with a guy, I should live my life a little first. He wasn’t a warm person (in her eyes), and so forth. She came around, though, and eventually loved Shane.

We went to New Orleans together once, where she saw her first Pride Parade. She loved it. We also walked down Bourbon St, she saw dancers with just mechanical tape over their nips and exclaimed that she wanted to take a picture for my dad – who was in Afghanistan at that point. Every night we went out to dinner and I’d get coffee and she’d get dessert (or the other way around) and it was so nice.

We had a complicated relationship, which is pretty normal for mothers & daughters, but I can say without hesitation that she was my best friend. It’s painful every single day, but it’s so much worse right now. Luckily, I know she’d want me happy so I don’t feel guilt for enjoying life.

I know this isn’t a post many will read, if anyone. It’s kind of depressing, honestly. But I had to get it out. Thanks, Internet, for letting me ramble.

Oh, the image up there is one of the last texts she sent me – I had told her someone told me I was too quiet.


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