Marsha, Marsha, Marsha. Or, how many moms you got?

"Life gives you lots of mothers."

It's true. I'm blessed with an amazing "real" mom. But I've been guided and comforted by many other moms, too.

There was Debby, the woman I worked with in college, who drove me home - completely out of her way - when it was really cold. And Mylene, the coworker at my first job in a big city, who took me under her wing - and then freakin' helped me move out of a very bad situation. And Lynn, who took one look at me and knew I could use a funny and kind friend. All such important mothers.

Growing up, I had Marsha. She was BFF's mom, and her house was always open. She and her husband were the kind of folks who never carpeted their family room, so the kids could hang out there and not have any worries.

Marsha had a huge laugh and was always going off on an adventure. She biked across Iowa and then around the Netherlands three times. She broke her wrist learning how to rollerblade when she was … a lot older than I am now.

Marsha passed away a few weeks ago.

It wasn't unexpected, and it was in many ways a relief. Alzheimer's is the worst, worst, worst.

I was so focused on being present and strong for BFF. We cleaned out her mom's room at the care center. We joked about all the casseroles and all the folks stopping by the house.

Our posse did shots in the bathroom of the funeral home.

We climbed to the top of the rocket slide in the city park late at night, still dressed up from the visitation.

Source

We looked like adults even if we were scared kids.

It was OK.

And then the morning of the funeral, as a dear friend and I were walking towards the church? I saw the hearse. And I turned away and said, "Hold on - I need to stand here and lose my shit."

They were going to take Marsha away. I'd seen her. I knew she was gone. But a hearse? A hearse made it real. So I stood on a sidewalk and made guttural noises into a dainty handkerchief.

We all need a mom, and I have been fortunate to have many good ones.

At the funeral luncheon in the church basement, I sat with BFF's brother. We hadn't seen each other in at least 15 years. He said he was surprised to learn I didn't have kids.

"Well, things didn't turn out the way I planned," I said. And then some spirit took over my body and I continued, "But this way I get to focus on being the best aunt. And we all have many mothers, and I get to be a surrogate mom to the people around me. Like your mom was for me."

Yes. Just like that.

I promise to pay it forward, Marsha. Thank you.

Use the "good" soaps and the fancy "guest" towels.

I know it's not appropriate to stomp your feet and yell, "No, no, no" upon reading the obituary of a 92-year-old woman. But that didn't stop me.

My mom sent me the obit for our family friend Bea. The Cliffs Notes version is that Bea lived life to the fullest and 92 years is a good, good run. We should be celebrating her life.

And I am. But there's more to it.

Back in the day, Bea finally got me to try online dating. First of all, she wanted to set me up with her ENT doctor. That didn't quite work out - something about him being not-quite-divorced and the dad of, like, 17 kids. But Bea led by example ... and met a man when she was in her 80s. Her exact words were, "I'm just over the moon! We don't have a lot of time, and I don't want to waste any of it!"

Bea's son walked her down the aisle. And I figured if Bea could find joy, I could, too. So I got off my couch and started interacting with the world again after a long hiatus.

My memories of Bea are of lipstick and laughter and being involved. She was on a committee with my mom. She helped out at the church with my grandma. She made my dad laugh with her funny stories.

Today, reading her obituary? I learned that Bea's mother died when she was just 4 years old. She was eventually sent to live with a cousin. But what could have been a heartbreaking situation was a house filled with love, a home where Bea was welcomed as a sibling and as a daughter, not as a stranger. I'm so thankful. They helped fill her tank for a lifetime of loving everyone she met.

I can't help but think of the Erma Bombeck column, "If I had my life to live over." Bea burned the fancy candles and used the "good" soaps. And I feel like that's the best way to honor her. Live it up. Use it up.

I always found it comforting to know that Bea was in the world. I think now the task is to be the Bea. If you need me, I'll be out with the girls, enjoying fou-fou cocktails and wearing an outfit that's a little too fancy because, well, why not?

Time travel through real estate.

So, I almost started bawling in a stranger's kitchen.

This weekend, my family was given a tour of the house my grandparents built. They lived there from 1961 until they moved to assisted living in 2001. And lemme tell ya - those 40 years were packed with kids and grandkids and cousins and meals and card games and the stuff of life.

My brother and I grew up about seven minutes away. So, we spent a lot of time with our grandparents. At a certain age, I came to feel like I was being dumped at their house. But my grandparents were kind, loving people, and they just rolled with it. Maybe that's what happens when you're looking down the barrel of 80 but still offering to watch your grandkids. You make them oatmeal in the morning and tomato soup at lunch and something with green beans and rolls at night and you just roll with it.

Their home was always well-tended, even as such tasks became more difficult. After we sold the house, it fell into disrepair. My mom warned us never to drive by. I would gaze upon it from down the hill, two blocks away. From that vantage point, it seemed OK. I could roll with that.

Now, a couple my parents have known for a while (OK, like 40 years) has purchased the house. They fixed the moldy soffits and dug all the trees out of the gutters. On the spur of the moment, they invited us in.

We stood in the garage that my grandpa had paneled. The screen door to the kitchen was the same. My grandpa had undoubtedly built the cabinets next to the door, too. And as we stepped over the threshold, I felt a tidal wave in my heart. I'd stepped through that door thousands of times - most notably to rush to the kitchen sink to puke after a particularly bumpy school bus ride. This time, I didn't worry about which side of the sink had the garbage disposal (I'd gotten it wrong last time - sorry, Grandma.). This time, I wondered if I would cry.

The floor was new and lovely. The cabinets had been painted a cheery cream. The dinette was tiny - how did we fit five people around a table in such tight quarters? The brick fireplace had been painted and a rustic mantle hung where the plastic fruit used to drape out of a metal basket thing that can only be described as, "You know, like from the 60s?"

The new homeowners had done everything that every HGTV show tells you to do to make a home your own, to freshen a house that may be a bit dated.

I wanted to tell them that their furniture wasn't quite in the right spots - the TV goes *there* and you need to make room for a piano against *this* wall. But if it had been the same sea-foam green carpet that I remembered, that would have just been sad.

These folks were obviously very excited about their new home and the changes that they'd made. It looked lovely, even if it was a bit jarring to find that it had changed at all. The pink bathroom was gone - the tile had crumbled when the plumber tried to repair the shower. And what was always my room - what had been my dad's room during his high school days - had become an office with an expanded closet to hold the laundry.

But that's where I sorted my grandma's clothes after she died. I sat on the bed and smelled her dresses.

But that was also the same bed where Grandma lay with her arm over her eyes, too exhausted from the stress of moving. I had been tasked with keeping her company while the movers loaded up furniture for what she was sure was a temporary move to an assisted-living facility 90 minutes away. At the time, not many small-town Iowans of a certain age got to stay close-to-home.

I tried to keep her mind off the fact that her home was being emptied. She told me about how on their last night of a European vacation, she and Grandpa had been too tired to do anything. So, they went to the movies and saw "My Fair Lady." And she listened to me talk about a dress I'd just bought, and how I thought my boyfriend was emotionally scarred from his parents' divorce and it was keeping him from proposing.

She kept her arm over her eyes, but she listened to every word. "Well, he just needs to get over it," she responded.

Get over it.

When the new homeowner was showing off her new washer and dryer and how it fit into the new, larger closet, I gave a cursory glance. Then, I walked back down the hall to wait for my family in the entryway. The new homeowners had a little table where the grandfather clock was supposed to be, but I rolled with it.

When we left, I touched the woman's arm. "We had such good, good times in this house," I said. "I'm excited for you and your family to do the same."

Further proof I'm turning into my mother.

It's the season of Mother's Day, so you know what I'm going to talk about: liquor.

My home state of Iowa only had state-owned liquor stores until 1987. They all had blue signs with white reflective lettering, like road signs. No fancy fonts or extra letters, just the business at hand: LIQUOR STORE.

I liked the LIQUOR STORE in my hometown because it had those magic doormats that make the door swing open when you step down. Is there anything more magical? No, no there is not. And yes, yes this means that my mom took me to the LIQUOR STORE as a kid. Because drinking wasn't a big deal, and so she raised kids that didn't run off and get drunkety drunk drunk at the first opportunity and drive off a bridge. Because we are chill.

Anyway, all the booze purchased at the state-owned LIQUOR STORE had special state stickers on it. Thus, liquor appropriated from the state was marked. And, in a way, dated.

Because now, my brother and I chide our parents for still having liquor in their home that has those state stickers on it. Meaning, it was purchased in or before 1987. Because Mom doesn't drink enough.

A perusal through Mom's liquor cabinet means moving some jigsaw puzzles out of the way to access the back of a basement cabinet. There, you'll find creme de menthe, peach schnapps, Southern Comfort, and a 4-pack of Bartles & Jaymes. The creme de menthe is for brownies. The peach schnapps and Southern Comfort are for the punch I accidentally got drunk on in 8th grade. And the Bartles & Jaymes is for when Mommy has HAD IT.

All of these items have the Iowa state LIQUOR STORE sticker on them. Meaning they are at least 29 years old.

This has been a source of good-natured ribbing. We'd poke fun at the alcoholic antiquities and Mom would just shrug her shoulders. "What if I need it?"

It was all fun and games until last weekend. My Guy and I were tasked with providing drinks for a Mexican dinner with friends. We settled on La Paloma, which promised to be a refreshing drink with a bit of a kick. Basically, lime, tequila, and Fresca. And who doesn't love Fresca?

As My Guy was getting ready to go on a Fresca run, I pulled the tequila out of our liquor cabinet. Because I keep house much like my mother, our liquor cabinet is the top shelf of our coat closet. Who needs hats and gloves when you have a good Scotch?

So, I grabbed the bottle of Jose Cuervo. It was about 2/3 full. And it had a sticker on it. A sticker from ... the state of Texas. I'd bought the tequila duty-free in Mexico and carried it back across the border, like a good bargain shopper. Which is all well and good except that I haven't been to Mexico since 2003.

Oh.

This could be bad.

I did a little research. Tequila doesn't really go bad, but it can get funky and less potent. I opened the bottle and took a research swig.

Ick.

Describing the tequila as "chunky" would not be inaccurate. It burned, but not as much as the realization that I am, in fact, becoming my mother. Dancing in inappropriate places? Check. Deciding you don't give a shit? Check. Storing liquor until it's practically a solid "just in case?" Checkety check check.

My Guy staged an intervention and poured the offending tequila down the drain. I had to look away.

I guess, like my mama, I don't drink enough. Perhaps this is something the 2 of us can work on together. Just not with La Paloma. My Guy liked it but I felt like it was going to put hair on my chest, which isn't a look I'm going for. Because I'm a lady of grace and dignity, dammit. Just like my mom.

Abusing loved ones for fun and profit.

One of my pals recently admitted to hiding from her kids. She was lying low so as to leave a tricky parenting situation to her husband. Their girls - ages 4 and 7 - were having a nuclear war.

The younger one had licked her older sister's nightgown.

The scene was dramatic in the way only girls that age can manage. The older sister was stomping around, refusing to wear the nightgown. Because her sister hadn't just licked it - she'd licked the inside. Meanwhile, the younger sister had wedged herself between the wall and a couch and was laughing maniacally.

Ahh.

I don't have a sister, so I don't have first-hand experience with that kind of torture. I am, however, an older sister to a little brother who is obviously very, very lucky.

The nightgown licking made me think of my own torture devices. My brother Poochie had this tiny pillow that was, of course, called Baby Pillow. And he had to sleep with Baby Pillow. This was when he was, like, 3. This wasn't last year.

Anyway, my way of torturing Poochie was to threaten to "suck the freshness" out of Baby Pillow. He would scream and I'd grab Baby Pillow and bury my face in it and inhale loudly. I was ensuring that Poochie would have the opposite of the "cool as the other side of the pillow" experience.

Bwah ha ha.

When I mentioned this to our mom, she had no recollection of it. This is proof that we all have selective memories because I did it all the damned time. So, she didn't remember me sucking the freshness out of Baby Pillow, but she was quick to mention the time I convinced a 4-year-old Poochie that our real parents lived in a Winnebago and were coming to pick us up for Christmas.

Heh. Yeah, I totally got in trouble for that one. But really, I've just always been very creative. Plus, I think I was at a disadvantage being the oldest child of two youngest children.

Or maybe I was just bitter about having shorts up to my armpits. And yes, this was the summer everyone thought I was a boy. Why do you ask?

My mom was hard-pressed to choose just 1 instance of her older sisters torturing her. Here's her winning example:

When we lived on West State Street, my bed was at the top of the stairs with a little closet door next to the head of my bed. I was told that after dark the closet monsters slid under the closet door and got under my bed and would grab me by the feet when I went to get into bed. As a result, I would launch myself across the room into bed and get in trouble with Mom. I think after Mom yelled at me for the gazillionth time she found out why I was doing this every night. [Know I did it for a long time ... and you KNOW how athletic I am, so it wasn't easy.] I don't even know if they got in trouble, but I was rather gullible.

This made me laugh so hard. I've been present when my mom told her sister this story. My sweet, beautiful, wonderful aunt just CACKLED. This cruel sister showed no remorse.

I have to admit that I admire her style.

I don't necessarily feel bad about sucking all the freshness out of Baby Pillow. I probably should, but ... ehh. Poochie's fine. Baby Pillow is fine. And I was a creative kid.

What did you do to get under your siblings' skin?

Why I highly recommend giving slightly outlandish gifts.

Eleven years ago this month, I moved out of the house I'd shared with my boyfriend of 7 years. We broke up, and I was completely broken.

I moved into The Apartment of Despair and everything was just ... wrong. I didn't have any plates that could go in the microwave, so I ate most of my meager meals off the same Pyrex pie plate. Since I suddenly found myself with 2 dogs and no backyard, I tried to navigate walking a psycho dachshund on ice. It did not go well. And my freelance business was ... fledgling at best. I knew it was going to work out, but times were hard.

I got a job working holiday retail, which gave me a reason to leave my apartment. And I tried to figure out how things were going to come together financially. When I decided to leave Ex-Ex, I had exactly $25.35 in my bank account. I'll never forget it. I was so ashamed, and wondered how I had gotten there, both financially and emotionally.

Christmas was to be a pared-down affair. The big gift for the family would be that my brother would fly home from Ireland, where he'd been living. We didn't need any other gifts. I think this was my mom's clandestine way of ensuring that I didn't feel like I needed to spend money I didn't have. We were just going to hunker down and celebrate being together.

There were a few notable gifts, though. Poochie brought with him a huge Milk Tray chocolate assortment. His coworkers from the factory in Ireland had chipped in and purchased it as a going-away present since his visa was expiring. These people were all Indian and Middle Eastern immigrants who assembled belts that jiggled your gut for supposed weight loss. To a man, they sent most of their earnings home to their families. These kind folks adopted Poochie, and had him to their homes for holidays. He brought their kindness home to us.

There were also envelopes from our grandpa. He was still reeling from the death of his wife of 69 years. It had been almost 3 years, but after 69 years ... that's barely a heartbeat. But he was doing his best, playing a little golf, going on a few excursions at the assisted living facility. He still wrote his letters referring to "we." It was both heartbreaking and a case of, "well, of course!" They had started their married life together on a farm in western Kansas during the depression. Their love was an example of "through thick and thin."

Poochie and I each got an envelope. Our folks had no idea what was inside. I opened mine first.

The note read:
Christmas brings memories of happy times of celebration with our family and great appreciation for all the thoughtful and caring things that you do.

Your grandma's legacy continues to grow in many ways. It is my pleasure to share this with you during this holiday season. Enjoy!

With love,
Grandpa

And there was a check.

In the grand scheme of things, it wasn't a ton. But to me? It was a gajillion dollars. It was rent and groceries and being able to breathe. It was moving forward instead of being moored to the idea that I had made huge, irreparable mistakes.

I cried. Ugly cried. The kind of sobbing you don't want anyone to see, except I was doing it at Christmas. I couldn't speak. Too much mucus.

My family couldn't figure out what was in the envelope and why I was so emotional. My brother opened his similar envelope, and everyone figured out quickly that I was good ugly crying, not bad ugly crying.

In all the photos from that holiday, I look rather raw. My eyes are red. I'm too skinny. But there's a glimmer of better things to come, of resilience.

A different Christmas. But just as magical.

And that's what I think about when I hear great stories about Secret Santas, people handing out cash at thrift stores, or folks covering bills for others. You just never know how that not-so-big-to-you kindness will size up for the recipient.

For me? It was king-sized. It was huge. And it reminded me that everything was going to be OK.

Have you been the recipient of such a life-changing gift? Warm my heart this Christmas and tell me all about it!

I hate mice and I love my family.

I visited my parents this weekend. They gave me life. And then they gave me mousetraps.

Let me back up.

So, remember when I interrupted a HUGE mouse in my silverware drawer, and it climbed out of the drawer and up my leg and I screamed a million screams and then had to burn down my house?

Good times.

Well, My Guy set a trap and killed that Jabba the Hutt of mice. Killed it dead!

Except ... well, it was evidently more of a Jabbette the Hutt. And she wasn't huge ... she just had some baby weight. Which we discovered because a few days after My Guy slew her, the babies came out looking for food.

Ohhhh nooooo.

And those babies were dumb. Almost as dumb as our vicious dogs. Picture it: My Guy, me, Lil' Frankfurter and Big Doodle were all lazing about on the couch on a Saturday morning, as is our custom. And gasp! There was something moving behind the entertainment center! It was grey and small and rodent-like!

The husband and I had a long, philosophical conversation about what in the name of Han Solo we were supposed to do. We certainly couldn't get off the couch because there was a MOUSE in the same ROOM! And while we didn't want to extricate a mouse carcass out of a dog's maw, you would think the canines would have some primal instinct to capture said mouse.

But no. Our dogs sat on the couch and watched the mouse. Not once did it occur to them to get off the couch and protect their pack from this intruder. My dogs are defective.

Finally, after much deliberation, My Guy bravely got off the couch and led the dogs outside. He escorted me to safety in the other room, and set the mouse trap. Then, he put up the baby gate. Then ... he left. He left me alone in a house with defective dogs and a probably rabid baby mouse.

The gate was supposed to keep the dogs out of the room with the trap. But in my mind, the baby gate would also serve to keep the mouse out of the rest of the house. The baby mouse wouldn't be so crass as to go into other rooms uninvited, right?

Well, there wasn't a lot of time for exploration. Within an hour or 2, I heard the trap go off. And then I heard the screams. Because the full-sized trap didn't kill the baby right away. I cried, and I prayed. I prayed for this rodent I was trying to kill. It was confusing.

And that whole "we're on the couch and we see a baby mouse and the defective dogs do nothing and then we set a trap and kill a poor, defenseless baby mouse" thing played out again the next day. And yet again, no adults stepped in to address the situation. My Guy and I had to handle it all by ourselves. It was terrible.

So, for those keeping track, that was 1 dead mama mouse and 2 dead baby mice. Oh, and then there was the third dead baby mouse I found under a washcloth on the floor. First of all, I have no idea how that washcloth came to be on the floor of our family room. Secondly, it was covering the little mouse carcass like we were filming an episode of "Law & Order: Rodent Division" in our house. It was all very dramatic.

Truthfully, by the third dead baby mouse, my heart was hardened. I just wanted a rodent-free house. Was that really too much to ask?

In the ensuing days, we haven't found any more mice, alive or dead. But you're never totally out of the woods with these things. Which brings us to my visit with my parents.

Now, there have been times my folks have plied me with groceries and gas money and an extra winter hat, just because. I would maybe roll my eyes, but truthfully? There is nothing like being hard-core nurtured by your parents like that. During a particularly broke spot, I returned to my craptastic apartment with 2 full grocery bags - my mom had raided her own pantry for me. The thought of it still makes me teary-eyed. They let me and my brother make our own way, but they made sure we had a little something for the road.

And so, this weekend? As I was getting ready to leave, my sweet dad asked how I was set for mouse traps. They'd had some mice this fall, and he'd discovered some great traps that were only sold at the farm and home store. Well, he'd show them to me. Well, they only sell them at the farm and home. Well, here, just take these, and he'll get some more.

I'm a grown woman and grown women don't cry over mouse traps. But it's sure nice to have parents who give you what you didn't quite realize you need. That, and my dad put the traps back in their original packaging because that's how he rolls. Also, he'd wiped the dead mouse detritus off and it was fine. Because we might pass used mouse traps around the family, but we do it with class.

I got a lot of problems with you people.

My dad joined Facebook and didn't accept my friend request.

He became friends with my mom and my brother and my husband a bunch of other people. But me, his firstborn? Naw.

My Guy kept casually mentioning it. "Oh, did you see I have a new Facebook friend? I don't think you're friends with him, but he's a really cool guy."

Sometimes it's OK to punch your husband, right?

Later, Dad claimed it was a computer glitch, and boy wasn't it easy to mess things up on the Internet? I think he was afraid that things might devolve into fisticuffs - we were meeting up at a family reunion. And it would be kind of a downer if we had a brawl in front of all the cousins.

But instead, we got along just fine, as is our custom. And we hung out with everyone from his side of the family - and I do mean everyone. His 2 siblings, us 8 cousins, the 13 kids of the cousins, all the various and sundry spouses. It was the first time we'd all been together since my grandma's funeral in 2002, and man, was it good for my soul.

My brother organized the whole shebang, and each night had a program. One night, the siblings talked about their childhoods. The other nights, us cousins answered questions about our memories of family times. I had forgotten about reenacting "The Towering Inferno" in Grandma's basement ... and no, I'm not sure what to think of my cousin's lingering fondness for O.J. Simpson based on that movie. But he's kind of embarrassed about it, and it's all just fine.

It's lovely to have shared experiences, and it's such a gift to have family that really is just that: family. The people who are important to you, whom you love in ways you can't describe - even if you don't see them for 10 years or you think they're mildly (or moderately) insane.

I'm blessed.

And I was blessed today to take another family member, Big Doodle, to the holistic vet who has helped Lil' Frankfurter. My giant dog who has been peeing blood like it's an Olympic sport and he's training to be a gold medalist?

Yeah. We're now treating it like bladder cancer.

But because he is family, we are pulling out the big guns with vitamin infusions and herbal remedies. And because Big Doodle is love covered in fur, he was quite happy to get yet another catheter, to let the techs shave his ankle and give him an I.V. It was OK - he had trust.

I trust that we're going to do right by this dog. I know I am blessed to have him - and all those other crazy jokers - in my family. We're all just trying to do right by each other, even if it means accidentally not being Facebook friends or some such nonsense. We've got the important stuff covered.

I have a placemat for my VCR. If I still had a VCR.

The new phone book's here! The new phone book's here!

Or, rather, my new issue of Uppercase magazine. You know, the issue that features a piece by me? Yeah, I'm published. Whatevs.

Except it's kind of a big deal. It makes me happy, and is a gentle prod to keep keep keep writing.

You can see the issue here. However, the resolution isn't so hot, so here's my article for your viewing pleasure.

--

My grandma created many beautiful items. She crocheted baby blankets and tatted Christmas ornaments. Those of us lucky enough to be in her family have potholders and afghans crafted as her slim fingers flew, needle and thread in hand.

Grandma filled her home with lovely things, items that were arranged just so. She loved to have people over, and took pride in providing a comfortable, gracious home. That house on Lacey Drive was always spotless. Grandma took care of business.

So, when the kids encouraged “the folks” to get a VCR, preparations needed to be made. You couldn’t just plop the machine on top of the console TV – it might scratch the wood. And so, the VCR sat on the carpet until Grandma could crochet a placemat.

The placemat was perfectly sized and made of the same creamy yarn she used for countless blankets. It protected the TV from whatever evil was lurking underneath the VCR. We grandkids giggled as we reprogrammed the VCR’s clock for the umpteenth time, but we accepted that grandmas were just wired to crochet placemats for their electronics.

The placemat was in a box of linens that I’ve toted around since we emptied the house Grandma and Grandpa called home for 40 years. Now, I realize this is no ordinary placemat.

This placemat is a work of art. Even though it was created to hide under a VCR, spending its life in the dark, the placemat has a series of intricate patterns. Instead of row after row of plain stitches, it has ribs and meticulous designs. The patterns were thoughtfully laid out to create a perfectly VCR-sized end product. It was created with care.

Grandma loved handicrafts, and the way she and Grandpa lived their lives showed they believed a job worth doing was worth doing well. Discovering that the VCR placemat was no exception was not a huge surprise.

Grandma been gone for 14 years, Grandpa for 9. They were married for 69 years. I miss them every day.

But little things like the VCR placemat remind me that they’re here, that I have a history. And a little OCD isn’t a bad thing. And even work that will be hidden should still be beautiful.

An open letter to the kids who went to prom in Des Moines on Saturday.

Dear friends,

I had no idea that getting your prom photos taken outside of the Iowa statehouse was a thing.

But it totally makes sense. With its gold dome, the capitol is pretty stunning. I tend to feel sorry for all other state capitols, as they are clearly deficient. As my brother pointed out, this is especially true for Nebraska. He referred to their skyscraper capitol as "The Penis of the Plains."

Heh.

But anyway. You all looked so lovely in all your prom finery. I realize I'm now an old biddy, because I look at you and think you look to be about 12, and I have old-lady thoughts like, "I'm so glad long dresses are back in style. Nobody needs to see vagina at prom."

But you looked great.

Now, I feel like perhaps I should apologize for what happened on the steps of the statehouse, but then again? Maybe I should just explain.

My incredible family feted me with a surprise early birthday celebration. These amazing people planned many fun surprises, and we had a wonderful time together. Saturday afternoon, we spent 3 hours and $36 playing arcade games and drinking beer. We had no idea my dad was such a pinball whiz, but it's true. You learn new things about the people you love all the time.

I should probably also mention that at this bar/arcade, my mom and I were hit on by 2 very nice gentlemen. They tried to buy her shots and bought me a beer. You're in high school and don't need to drink and probably get hit on 24/7 because you're young, hot, and hormonal, but this was a big deal to us. See, I'm turning 40 next week. And my mom has been married for 46 years. Having these guys hit on us was kind of the highlight of our years.

We were feeling giddy.

And so, when we were walking back to the car, post-arcade? It just made sense that I would run up the steps of the statehouse, a la "Rocky."

At first, we thought all the matching white tuxes meant there was a wedding. But then, we realized that it was prom, and photos were the name of the game. So, we improvised, and decided that instead of running up the steps to the statehouse, I'd just run up the steps leading up to the steps of the statehouse. There are a lot of steps.

I played "Gonna Fly Now" on my phone and ran up the steps while my family cheered and my mom captured the magic on video. I ended jogging at the top, arms raised in triumph.

No, I'm not having a seizure. I'm triumphing over adversity.

Except that the camera didn't work. We had to reenact the magic. No problem. I played "Gonna Fly Now" and ran up the next section of stairs. We got more into it, and my family pretended to be the kids in "Rocky II" who run up the steps with him. We were fucking champions.

But the camera didn't work again. So, we re-re-enacted the moment, looking more ridiculous than ever but having a great time. Pretending to be Rocky without actually getting punched is pretty sweet. I highly recommend it. You're gonna eat lightening and you're gonna crap thunder!

YEEEEEAAAAAAAH! Yo, Adrian!

So, my friends? That's why you have a ragtag group of random people running and jumping around in the background of your prom photos. Years from now, when you're showing your prom photos to your kids and grand kids, you can tell them that while getting dressed up and fancy is fun? Acting silly and looking stupid is where the real joy is.

Also? You're gonna regret those white tuxes.

Love,
Becky

Pretend they're happy tears.

I'm a terrible, horrible person. You probably are, too. But we're talking about me. Get your own blog.

Sigh.

See, a friend has received a great blessing. She's so happy, and excited.

On the surface, I am gracious and happy for my friend. But inside? Inside, I look like every monster from every 1950s B-movie horror show. I have fangs and scales and bulging eyes and bad, bad breath. I'm ugly.

I look like this. But worse. Definitely with more nose hair.

My friend is pregnant.

Now, in the land of Childless and Going With It, you aren't supposed to feel feelings when someone else has a baby. If you didn't spend a gajillion dollars on IVF until it took, or you didn't pursue every avenue of adoption until your house was filled with 27 kids, well, you just didn't want parenthood bad enough. You didn't earn the right to grieve.

But I'm still here. And I'm still grieving. And I feel horrible for feeling so ugly about my friend's good news.

She will be an amazing mother. I truly wish her and her lucky little baby every joy and blessing. I can't wait to smell that baby's head, because baby heads are the best.

But it also makes me sad.

Why wasn't it me?

Why am I one of three childless women I know in, like, the whole world? Why does this still hurt? Why do I feel like a defective typewriter?

I was never one of those women whose lives would be meaningless without kids. Longtime readers know that there was a time when I was pretty actively in the "Oh, hell no" camp when it came to children. But people change, and situations change, and I fell in love and I wanted to have a family with this amazing man. It just didn't turn out quite the way we planned.

Our line in the infertility sand was no treatments that would increase my breast cancer risk. With my family history, this precaution wasn't just lip service - it was necessary. So, our treatment options were limited.

As for adoption? My parents offered to help financially. It felt very "How much for zee little gurl?" But it didn't feel right. My husband and I tabled adoption talk until we could right our emotional ships. And then it just never felt like the right time to pursue adoption. And then we realized it wasn't right for us at all. We will contribute to the world in other ways.

And so, here we are.

We make grandiose proclamations like, "Since we don't have to put anyone through college, we should go on fabulous vacations!" And yet, we can't agree on where to go. We set up college funds for our nieces and nephews, and go back to the same beachfront hotel year after year. And year after year, I am troubled by seeing the same poolside waiter, and I wonder if he has any retirement savings at all. I am redirecting my maternal instincts.

This is life. This is our life.

We've made peace with a world where we don't have kids. When a teacher pal mentioned a high school student who was pregnant and half-joked that she'd get the girl to give us her baby, I wasn't filled with hope. I was filled with panic, and with dread at the thought of having to say, "That's not our baby. No."

Because we don't have a baby. We won't. I had to shut that door because I couldn't move forward while still contemplating the "maybe." I had to say "no" for my own emotional survival, and to grow.

I get tired of friends and random people who can't talk about anything but kids, or who assume that everyone has kids, or who give me the sad head tilt of infertility empathy. If you really want to be empathetic, talk about something besides your kid. Also, buy me a drink. Because no 4-year-old is going to wake me up at 5 a.m. and I can sleep it off.

But if you really want to be kind? Please don't judge me too harshly. When I cry at a friend's good news and may or may not be successful in playing it off as happy tears? Let it go. Play along. Later, act like you can't tell I just sobbed in the ladies' room.

I'm happy for my friend. I can't wait to smell that downy baby noggin. But it's all just a bit much.

Operation: Eff Yeah, I'm 40!

When my dad turned 40, we threw him a funeral.

A family friend was an undertaker, and he filled our living room with white folding chairs. There were plant stands holding dead flowers, and we even had that little stand with a guest book. My dad came home from work to find all his friends seated in the living room, crying softly while looking at a Skippy Peanut Butter jar full of fireplace ashes.

And then us kids were shipped off and they tapped the keg.

But yeah. A funeral.

I'm turning the big 4-Oh in a few months, and it doesn't feel like a death at all. It feels kind of badass. Like I'm just getting smarter and stronger and more interesting and well on my way to knowing exactly what everybody needs to be doing because I'm so smart and they would be lucky if I told them what they're doing wrong. My inner old lady who doesn't give a shit is alive and well. I like her.

So, I'm trying to decide how to celebrate my birthday. I turned 21 during finals week, so my big "party" was having a morning exam, downing beer at lunch, sleeping it off in the afternoon, and then studying all night. When I turned 30, my life was basically in the toilet, but my parents and friends conspired to throw me a wonderful, humbling party. It was lovely.

Now, looking at 40? I don't need a party. I want to go someplace special with My Guy and do something empowering. Maybe hiking or kayaking or getting a really nice coat at a deep, deep discount. The possibilities are endless.

Well, the possibilities within the continental United States, anyway.

What should I do for my birthday extravaganza? How have you celebrated big birthdays? Any advice? Operation: Eff Yeah, I'm 40! needs your input.

Farewell, sweet friend.

When I first adopted Foxie Doxie, he had a big ol' bald spot on his side.

He'd gotten burned by some fresh asphalt, and the vet said my hyper doxie would probably never grow hair there.

Well, clearly, the vet was full of shit, because Foxie totally grew lush side-body hair. He was the dachshund equivalent of Farrah Fawcett. He did things his own way, thank you.

That was 12 years ago, and Foxie has been full of piss and vinegar every since. You lookin' for somebody to trap a possum, at night, in the pouring rain? Foxie's your man. You wondering just who would pee on wedding invitations?

Well, Foxie was a tiny bit ashamed about that one, but evidently, it had to be done - even if it meant wearing The Overalls of Shame afterwards.

So, 12 years and one week after I first met my little guy with the bald spot on his side, he got the same hairdo again. He got shaved for an ultrasound, as we hadn't been able to shake his raging UTI.

Never in my wildest, most hypochondriacal dreams did I think that Foxie Doxie's little tinklepotty problems were actually prostate cancer.

But they were. And that bidness is bad, bad news in dogs.

Our options were basically "ship him off to Colorado for treatment that will scar him emotionally and fry all his internal organs" or ... let him go.

We found out Friday. By Saturday, it was obvious that he was miserable and wasn't going to get any less miserable. My Guy and I decided that keeping him around would be wholly selfish on our parts.

Foxie cuddled with Lil' Frankfurter, and then enjoyed some sunshine.

I wrapped my boy up in a blanket and we went to the vet.
He died in my arms.

I can't stop crying.

So, here's the thing: Foxie Doxie was the longest non-family relationship of my adult life. He knew stuff. We went through a lot together. And while he didn't say much, he knew.

And he was a total jackass. This is a kid who peed in my bed more than once, just because. He had such social anxiety that he would lose his mind if another dog even deigned to walk down our street. He felt it was his duty to mark every piece of furniture in my house - and my parents' house. He took this duty very seriously.

And yet. He had the softest ears on the planet. When I held him, he would tuck his head under my chin and snorgle loudly. He was my boy, and I was his mama.

My heart is broken.

And yet. When the vet tech asked for a phone number to call when the ashes were ready, I told My Guy to give her my number. He was upset, and the phone number he rattled off had about 17 digits and wasn't even close to my number. Like, the area code wasn't even right. I was holding our dying dog, and I started laughing like a hyena. I looked at the tech, who was mortified. "That's so not my number," I said. "We've been married 3 and a half years, and that's not even remotely my number!"

So, at least there was laughter through the tears in Foxie Doxie's last moments.

Later, dear, kind, generous friends wordlessly showed up on our porch with our favorite, completely complicated pizza order, a 6-pack, 2 bottles of wine, and 2 gigantic mums. As my sweet husband told me, "I don't even know what to say. Except that this feels good after a few really shitty days. I don't even know what to say."

Lil' Frankfurter and Big Doodle are sticking to us like glue, as they know we need each other more than ever. Our little pack is reeling, but we're doing it together.

We're heartbroken. But blessed.

We love you, Foxie.

Enjoy marking the pearly gates.

That weird combination of happy and horrible.

My mother-in-law was diagnosed with breast cancer.

If you just whispered, "Oh, shiiit," you're not the only one with that reaction.

But, that was a few weeks ago. The whole thing turned out to be the best possible scenario - they caught it early, and she won't need chemo or even radiation. Once she's healed up from the lumpectomy, we can kind of pretend this whole thing never happened.

Except that it did.

It turns out that I'm the official family Cancer Sherpa. As Cancer Sherpa, I know what stuff means and how things generally work. I'm the one who explained what margins are in terms of removing a tumor. I know things. I'm like a very sick version of Liam Neeson's "I have a very particular set of skills" character.

The whole thing revived the latent PTSD I have from my mom's breast cancer. You know, that cancer that I like to pretend never happened, except that it did? The cancer that now, with a mere 16 years of distance, we can all agree was horrific?

It's a fine line between sharing my experience and telling stories that aren't mine to tell. I hope my MIL doesn't mind that I share her diagnosis. And I hope my mom doesn't mind that I tell you how even now, even after the dust has long since settled, I am still traumatized and terrified by what she went through, and the scary times our family faced.

My mom is a badass. I think I've covered this. But it's still hard to believe that we are living our lives as if we're normal, everyday people. Sixteen years ago this summer, my mom was pretty sure she wasn't going to make it to Christmas. The rest of us didn't want to entertain this possibility, even though it kept knocking at the door.

Mama was given an 80% chance of reoccurrence. She had a double mastectomy with reconstruction. She went into heart failure on the table. Her body rejected some of the transplanted tissue.

Oh, shiiit.

She told me recently that she still can't believe she went through all that she did. And I opened my big dumb mouth and said, "Well, it's not like you were just going to lay down and die."

She could have. But she didn't, because that's not who she is. And I'm glad.

She's said that she knows she's a bit overzealous when it comes to her new grandbaby. But she explained that she never thought she'd see my brother graduate high school, much less get married or do something totally insane like become a parent. And so, she celebrates.

We're shell-shocked, if we're being honest, even 16 years later. But we celebrate.

And so, I'm celebrating for my MIL, and my sweet husband's family. I will be your Cancer Sherpa, and share what I know only if you really need to know it. Right now, what you need to know is that it's OK to be upset.

But I highly recommend celebrating.

May your birthday be excrement-filled.

I just called to wish my most awesome dad a most awesome birthday. Because we just can't seem to help ourselves, the conversation took a bit of a turn.

Me: Oh, I heard back from the vet. Lil' Frankfurter's tests all came back normal. There's nothing wrong with him.

Mom: Well, pssh.

Me: I know, right? There's nothing wrong with him, except he's wasting away.

Dad: He's so thin.

Mom: Did I send you that dog food recipe?

Me: Yeah. But it doesn't matter what I feed him - he just keeps losing weight.

Mom: He eats and he poops, but nothing happens in between.

Me: Right! I mean, he poops like a champion.

Dad: I've always thought so.

Mom: He's just so cute - and you think, "oh, look at how he's sitting in the middle of the patio ... "

Me: ... and then you realize he's taking a giant dump in that delicate little stance.

Dad: He's got good form.

Me: Happy birthday, Dad! Let's talk about poop!

Mom: Well, it could be worse. It's not like we're talking about a human family member.

Dad: No. We're way too classy for that.

Me: We could be all, "Oh, say what you will about Uncle Floyd, but he could really take a dump."

Mom: Well, we all have our special gifts.

Dad: Ha! "You know, with Uncle Floyd, you always knew when it was time to leave the house."

Mom: Yeah! And "You knew it was best to let things air out a bit after Floyd had used the facilities."

Me: Sorry, Dad. This really devolved.

Dad: I would expect nothing less.

Happy @#$&*#$%@# Father's Day.

Now that Father's Day is over, I'm gonna give you the real lowdown on good dads.

Good dads give you a corsage for the dance when you don't have a date.

Good dads carry your crap up stairs into un-air-conditioned dorm rooms in August. And put together your shelves. Like a boss.

 Good dads make you laugh.

And good dads teach you new words.

Now, my dad is a wordsmith, but not in a traditional sense.

The man can cuss.

My brother and I learned all kinds of vocabulary anytime there was a project of the home-improvement nature. Words were linked together to create magical new meanings, some of which I still don't understand. What, exactly, does "Jiminey Christmas" mean, anyway?

I still don't know. But I learned this: Words have power.

I was lucky enough to grow up in a family that valued a good story. You could get away with just about anything if you could spin it into a captivating - and preferably funny - tale.

Words have power.

For me, words gave me the power to do something with my life besides live in my parents' basement. So, even if my dad thought he was just having words with a window screen, or entertaining his kids with a very detailed story about how garbanzo beans come from The Valley of Garbonz? He was teaching us the power of words.

Well, and he was ensuring that I would eventually move out and become a writer.

I'm forever grateful. Besides, my other major life skill is making grilled-cheese sandwiches, and it's rough going making a living just serving up Kraft slices on wheat. Writing is much better.

Thanks, Dad.

In which I run around my house nekkid, licking all the stuff.

My Guy and I have been blessed to host various and sundry family members over the last 2 weeks.

I genuinely like these people. They are good people.

I've been cooking. And cleaning. And changing sheets. And washing towels.

The good news out of all of this is that holy banana sandwich, I have found my life calling. Clearly, I was put on this Earth to be a spokesmodel for Bar Keepers Friend - even if the product's lack of apostrophe makes me cry. This stuff is freakin' magic!

Let's say you're like me, and you live in an old house. And you've scrubbed and scrubbed your home's original tub, and it's fine. But once you introduce Bar Keepers Friend to your tub? Your tub will shine like new! Years of gunk that you didn't even know was there will rinse right down the drain ... along with a few layers of skin from your hands because you forgot to wear gloves. But it's so, so worth it.

My only regret is that I didn't take before and after shots (of the tub, not my hands). But it's probably for the best, as the after shots would be so bright that readers would be blinded, and I'd get sued, and it would be a whole thing.

So, that's the good news.

The bad news about hosting a bunch of family across a few weeks is that you get a little crazy and just need a little alone time. OK, maybe a lot crazy, to the point that once you're alone, you want to run around your house nekkid, just because you can. And maybe make nekkid snow angels in the dirt on your floors. And maybe lick all your furniture to mark it as your own, because you're a girl and the idea of peeing to mark just seems like too much trouble, even in your somewhat irrational state.

The few friends I've mentioned this to have seemed more than a little alarmed. Is this whole licking thing not a normal impulse?

Granted, I grew up in a house where licking a cookie meant that it was yours. It was viewed as a somewhat offbeat tactic, but acceptable because the ownership of baked goods is a big deal. Perhaps my peers don't have this same point of reference?

You will probably be relieved to know that instead of spreading saliva, I've just been going to bed really, really early. And ignoring laundry. And admiring my visage in the reflection from my better-than-new tub.

You're welcome.

Interview with Mom: On creativity, friends, and profanity.

My mom is a saint for putting up with all these crazy interview questions. In the final installment of my Mothers' Day celebration / interrogation, Mom opens up about taking time for herself, the value of girlfriends, and being a lady.

Me: I've always thought of you as an artist. Do you identify yourself that way?

Mama C: Not as an artist. Creative, sure. I was never 'good enough' as an artist because I define that as painting or drawing or sculpture. I could master techniques but was never satisfied with how I used them. But I definitely have an urge to be creative, to do something with my hands.

Me: Do you feel like you've found your niche with quilting?

One of Mom's many gorgeous quilts, and a shih tzu who approves.

Mama C: I love the colors and feel of the fabrics. Walking into a quilt store, I'm just on overload. I love the satisfaction of putting a quilt top together, although I usually follow a pattern. And the fact that there is a useful quilt at the end of the process is gratifying. I do know that I get cranky and irritable [or just more so than usual] when I haven't quilted for awhile, so maybe this is my cozy niche.

Me: I get hung up on the "usefulness" aspect - perhaps it's a Midwestern thing. So many of the crafts and crap I see on Pinterest, I think, "Yeah, you could do that - but WHY?" With a quilt, it's a creative endeavor with a very solid end result. People need blankets or they get cold and die.

Mama C: Yup. I love the idea of somebody snuggling under a quilt I made on a cold evening. I've also found great joy and satisfaction in being a 'Quilt Fairy' and swooping in unexpectedly on people to give them a quilt.

Me: That is the best! Do you schedule time to quilt, or does it just kind of happen organically?

Mama C: The problem is that I forget to take ME time to quilt ... ya know, the bucket with the holes punched along the rim or the pyramid of champagne glasses that won't fill til the top one gets filled? So, I think the secret is to cross out an afternoon to quilt, just like you would for a meeting or appointment or whatever else was going on.

Me: This sounds like a good rule about just about anything. Women seem really skilled at putting ourselves last.

Mama C: Women tend to be nurturing and we take care of everybody within our vicinity, but we forget to take care of ourselves. Where is it written that we can't sit down to read a book or quilt or sit on the patio in the sun? I'm really bad at that, then I have a strict talk with myself and it gets better ... and then I forget.

Me: Do you think girlfriends help?

Mama C: YES. [I censored my response] To have a close friend move away or die just leaves a hole you don't know how to fill. Who can you talk with, bitch about things to? Who will tell you you're not crazy? Who can you just sit with in silence and enjoy the company? I read something somewhere [who knows] about people coming into your life when you need them, but not necessarily staying for long and I think that's true. But definitely yes, you do need girlfriends so you have somebody to laugh, cry, and hold dear. And reconnecting with past girlfriends is a real gift -- they know all your history.

Me: Was there an "eff yeah" in there originally?

Mama C: Um, perhaps ... but I am a lady of grace and dignity and I will not stoop to profanity. [snicker]

Me: Umm, OK. Sure.

--

She's pretty great, isn't she?

Interview with Mom: Yes, she really almost left us on the side of the road.

It's almost Mothers' Day! I'm celebrating all week with my favorite mom. That's my mom. And no, you can't have her.

Yesterday, Mom gave up the secret to marriage. And today? Well, a mom's gotta talk kids at some point.

Me: So, what was the hardest part of parenting, besides not leaving us on the side of the road even when you wanted to? What has been the best part?

Mama C: The hardest part is letting you two make your own mistakes because I knew you wouldn't listen to advice from a parental unit. A few times we did make you do things that we felt were important, but generally you had to learn to make good choices. Side of the road almost happened, though.

(Ed. note: Circa 1983, Mom traveled to the next town over - kids in tow - to go to Target. Poochie was 3, and I was 8. If memory serves, we were little monsters the entire trip. On the ride home, Mom had had it. She pulled her Buick Regal over to the side of the highway, in front of the Pioneer Feed plant. She used a chilly, dead-serious tone we'd never heard before. I began to calculate how long it would take me to walk home 20 miles. Although she didn't physically remove us from the car, whatever she said [the words are lost to time] really got the desired effect. No one said a word the rest of the ride home - nor the rest of the day. The episode lives on in family lore - obviously.)

Oh, the best parts ... unexpected/spontaneous hugs from you two whether as kids, teenagers or adults. They just melt my heart. Seeing the adults you and Poochie have grown to be -- loving, kind, caring people. Uh-huh ... need another Kleenex.

Me: We take after our parents.

What's your experience been like as a grandma?

Mama C: Everyone tells you it's awesome as they bore you with endless pictures of ugly babies. But Nora is so wonderful. And beautiful and smart and all those other things. I am overwhelmed with love, with the miracle of her. And tearful [hard to believe, huh?] when I think that my mother never knew what wonderful children I have, my dad didn't really 'know' you and Poochie. I think when you're the parent, you're so busy taking care of the baby/child you forget to see the wonder of it all, but as a grandparent you just sit back and watch.

--

I love "the wonder of it all," don't you?

Tomorrow, don't miss Mom's thoughts on creativity, friendship, and that crappy habit women have of taking care of everybody else first.

Interview with Mom: Raising strong women and lookin' good.

In honor of Mothers' Day, we're talking to my mom. Yesterday, she dished on her real-life "Mad Men" experiences. Today, she tells all when it comes to raising a daughter and finding her personal style.

Me: How did your "Mad Men"-esque experiences impact how you raised your daughter?

Mama C: I'd like to think she learned the value of herself, although I don't think any of us really do. We're basically conditioned to doubt ourselves. To stand up for who she was, not take any crap.

Realistically, we played house and school for hours on end - typically female roles. So I don't think I instilled radical feminist beliefs in her except by accident. But I think she knew [and knows!] that she could do anything as well as anybody else, male or female.

Me: Well, for what it's worth, when some idiot on the playground attempted to belittle me by saying I was "just a girl," it didn't work, because I had no earthly clue what he was talking about.

Mama C: Thank you for that!

Me: I've always experienced you as being very feminine – your nails are impeccable, and you’d rather die than leave the house without earrings. Have you always been a girly girl?

Mama C: You have to remember that I grew up in an era of starched dresses, hats, gloves and mary janes. I remember slacks because you had to wear them UNDER your dress when it was really cold outside and you were walking to school. Even in high school and my two years of college, I was still wearing skirts [mini tho they were]. I did wear jeans once in a variety show in high school. And hair - once I was in high school, it was the era of teasing and hair spray ... flipped, of course, which was tricky. Sleeping in curlers. Ack!

Me: In my mind, though, you knew all the tricks. So glamorous! Who / what influenced your style, either back in the day or now? Also, it kind of kills me that you remember the one time you wore jeans in high school. I must have been a huge disappointment.

Mama C: No you weren't ... I was envious. I would have loved to be able to wear jeans. Oh, and we didn't have panty hose either so there were the undergarments and nylons and runs. Egads, So ... I really wanted to be Audrey Hepburn, but I wasn't built like her. I looked at the magazines for trendy styles for hair/clothes. I watched what my friends wore. What was worn on TV. Truthfully, I worked to buy my clothes, so my wardrobe wasn't very extensive. I've always wanted to just have a classic look that never goes out of style. Haven't found it yet, but I still clean up pretty good. Is that called peer pressure?

Me: You know, Audrey probably would have killed for your rack.

Mama C: Hahahahaha. I will keep that thought in mind always.

--

My goodness, I love this woman.

Tomorrow? Mom talks marriage. A lot of marriage. Because she's been doing it for a long time.