Friendship, humor, sorority, Uncategorized

TOGA! TOGA! TOGA!

An open letter to my college roommate:

My dear friend Carrie,

As you approach a half a century and I think of our friendship of almost 30 years, so many stories come to mind. We met during my sophomore/your junior year. We had rushed the same sorority and lucky for me, ended up being roommates and friends for life. Like all college co-eds, campus life afforded us many memorable shenanigans. This experience was only enhanced by our living in the same sorority house.

There were six of us that lived in that spacious top floor dormitory. We dubbed it “The Penthouse.” I suppose we thought that made us sound sexy. In reality, three of us wore black and thought we were groupies for the Smiths; the other three wore pink and green ribbons around our collars and knew what grosgrain was. (You’re googling it right now aren’t you? Unless you grew up in the 80’s and remember the Preppy Handbook you are probably not familiar with this word.) I came from a small town in the boonies of Michigan. You came from a tony suburb of Detroit populated by descendants of Dodges and Fords.

Somehow, we both ended up in Ann Arbor.

Freshman year I lived in the “Jock Dorm” (Yes, I see the humor. I have no idea why I was placed there. But honestly, where were they going to put me? In the Class Brain dorm? Umm, Michigan. EVERY DORM was the class brain dorm. And when I got to U of M I realized I had nowhere near the brainpower that the rest of the student body had. It kind of made sense I was with the kids that were there because of athletic ability.)

You came from the all-female dorm on campus nicknamed “The Virgin Vault.” That was what probably led to you being voted, “Most Likely to be a House Mother.” Well, that and the fact that while the rest of us were buying stretch pants at Express, you were browsing the racks at Talbots. My guess is by now you have progressed to Chico’s or J.Jill.

I, on the other hand, was voted “Most Likely to be Heard Round the World” and “House Headbanger,” proving that some things never change and some things COMPLETELY change. (Ok, Ok, ….So I DID go to a party once with a guy named “Beast” which MAY have been why I got that last moniker.)

You are the friend that gave me what Ted has labeled the “Worst Housewarming Gift Ever”: A giant bag of tulip bulbs. I loved them; Ted, being the one who planted them all, felt any “gift” that required manual labor was no gift at all. (For years before he had a handle on who was whom, Ted referred to my college friends as “the little one,” “the one who worked for the NBA,” “the one who lives on Lake Shore,” and the “one who gave us all those tulip bulbs.”)

It’s common knowledge that if you are my friend, being a good sport is a necessary requirement. But you go above and beyond. As evidenced by the following stories:

The Friars: The Friars were a campus a capella group consisting of cute boys (with talent!) We have revisited this story countless times and it is still as funny to me now as it was the day it happened. You had a late class. The Friars were coming to sing. I had your composite picture. What more needs to be said? The handsome and talented Friars arrived during dinner to promote their upcoming concert. Greeting them on the door, right above the doorbell, was your formal picture. There you were in a black, off the shoulder drape, smiling at them. I had added a speech bubble, “Welcome Friars! Love, Carrie.” You arrived shortly after. You walked into the dining hall with the photo in your hand red-faced and laughing. Another “sister” wouldn’t have been as gracious with me.

The sleepover: One of the rules of living in the sorority house is that boys were NOT allowed beyond the first floor. Most people adhered to this because who wants to sneak a guy past 65 women and a crotchety old house-mother named Kitsy? It’s also just common courtesy to your roommates to not have a man in your room overnight. Sometimes though, when you are liquored up, common courtesy goes out the window. One night, for reasons I can’t really remember, my boyfriend and I stumbled home from the bar and literally crashed into my twin bottom bunk bed. My five roommates were asleep. My boyfriend was passed out. He was a big guy, 6 ft tall and built like a football player. He wasn’t going anywhere.

The next morning you came in from the shower and started getting dressed. Your dresser was three feet from my bed. Well, I think you remember what happened next, even if I can’t. Let’s just say he got closer to your boobs than he did to mine that day. I MUST INTERRUPT THIS LETTER TO MENTION THAT THE GIRLS IN THIS ROOM WERE WHAT SOME WOULD CALL “CHESTY.” I think we can assume that if my boyfriend were awake at this point there is a good chance it would be HIM telling this story to HIS friends 30 years later instead of ME telling MINE.

That was the last time he stayed in our room.

Side Note:

Sometimes your husband reads a draft of your blog and comments that it is a little long and that perhaps one paragraph could be trimmed and suggests it be the one about your college boyfriend that you haven’t seen or talked to in 25 years and you are not married to and then insists he is not upset but then also says maybe you should cut the part about the guy named Beast you went to the party with because it’s not really funny so you briefly consider building an entire blog about past relationships but then decide you will maybe just add an unnecessary but satisfying sentence describing the boyfriend as “6 ft tall and built like a football player” and call it a day.

To let you know how long my trickery lasted the final story I will tell is one that happened several years after college when we found ourselves both living on the East Coast. I was in Boston and you were in Hartford and we tried to get together when we could. One weekend we decided to drive the entire Cape. We stopped at Plymouth Rock for the obligatory visit. Who knew there was an entire living history museum there on the tall ships complete with actors? Seeing a young handsome lad “playing” an adventurous seafarer was all I needed to try to make a love connection for you. If you think trying to play Cupid with two embarrassed people is funny, try doing it with a person trying to stay in character from the 1600s. He may have told you he was unable to go play mini-golf due to a severe case of scurvy.

I should tell you that my sorority was the best thing that happened to me in college. And not just because of the endless parties and pranks. In a university the size of Michigan, making friends and finding your place is hard. Sorority life WAS college for me. There was no U of M without the house and the girls in it.

Carrie, you are one of a small group of women I have consistently stayed in touch over the past 30 years. You and they have been there for me for the good times and bad. The ones who sent care packages to me and gifts for the kids when Ted was going through chemo. The ones who were game to get down on the floor in cocktail dresses and try to form a pyramid at my wedding. The ones who drove from miles away to be there when I have had family members die.

Here is what I know for sure: The longer you have friends the longer you have them. My closest friends are the ones I met when I was still a teenager, before I really became an adult. These are the people who formed me and made me who I am. The ones that no matter what accept me for who I am. They not only really know me, but also really SEE me. Through the ups and downs of life, and the friendships that come and go, these girls have been a constant for me. Thank you for saying “yes” on bid night.

Loyally in επ,

Samantha XO

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Text from Carrie when I told her my birthday letter to her was turning into a blog post:

“Dear God, this is exactly what I was afraid of. Lol. Isn’t that how I started the conversation the other night? Of course you have my ok.”

Left, above: Carrie and her pilgrim Right above: Carrie’s composite picture

Top picture from left to right: The little one, Carrie, the one who lived on Lakeshore, and the one that worked for the NBA

adolescence, fashion, humor, Uncategorized

“But she has a good personality…”

Did I get your attention? Yes, I thought so. I’ll wait until you compose yourself and stop laughing before I continue……..

Ok, ready?

When I was in high school and even in college, THIS was the photo my brother would bring out when I would bring a new boyfriend home. Can you guess what the results of this particular type of trauma are? PTSD? Good guess, but no. Boyfriends imagining what possible future children might look like and consequently running for their lives? Nope. Thousands of dollars from winning Awkward Photo contests? You would think, but no again. Believe it or not, living through the most severe “Ugly Duckling” stage you can possibly imagine ended up giving me lots of friends and self-confidence. Spending a good part of your childhood looking like this makes you talkative and outgoing. I just naturally had to capitalize on my personality.

Now, don’t worry, this is not a self-help feel-good post. In fact, I’m not even going to pretend and say that “It all worked out the way it was supposed to” and “I’m glad I went through it because I came out stronger in the end.” No way. Here’s the truth:

IT SUCKED.

Believe me, I would have rather been an adorable cheerleader. But sometimes you try out for the cheerleading squad and don’t make it and the next year try out for the pom squad and don’t make it then the next year you are still optimistic or maybe just dumb so you try out one more time and guess what you don’t make it again so then you tell yourself Hey National Honor Society is pretty fun too.

So now I will answer the question you have been asking yourself this whole time: “How on Earth is she letting people see that picture of her?” Well, I think you already know the answer. Because it is So. Darn. Funny. And funny always trumps embarrassing.

I actually remember the day my 6th grade teacher, Mr Sanford, handed out the school pictures. He looked down and saw my photo shining through the clear part of the giant envelope and made a noise I can’t reproduce with words but sounded like he was being stabbed in the eye and let’s face it metaphorically he was. With a grimace on his face, he slammed the envelope onto his chest as if horrified for me. You think I’m kidding. I’m not. This actually happened.

Not shockingly, I have tons of these pics floating around because I never handed any out that year to friends or family. This is one of those times when I wonder to myself, “Why didn’t my mom let me do re-takes?” I am guessing she probably didn’t want to spend the money. This is a topic for another day: Why My Mom Often Took the Cheap Route. With the subcategories 1) graduation pictures, 2) clothes for teenagers who just want to be cool 3) and at-home haircuts.

Anyway, back to me. Recently I was looking through some old pictures and realized that as I “grew into” my physical appearance, my fashion sense seemed to plummet.

SIDE NOTE:

There is no such thing as “growing into” your looks. Unless you are Benjamin Button, you are not going to “grow into” anything except maybe those fat pants you keep in the back of the closet. People always say “grew into” when they want to say nicely that someone used to look terrible and now they are attractive. Because you can’t just say, “Remember how hideous that kid was?” even though you might be thinking it. So you say, “Boy, that neighbor kid really ‘grew into’ his nose.” This is similar to “Baby Fat”. That kid at church your mom wants you to marry does not have “baby fat.” He’s 14 and he’s just plain chubby. When you are 14 you do not have baby anything. I know right now you are thinking I am mean, but it is just Truth. Also, anytime during this post you think I am making fun of someone please refer back to the picture at the top of this page as a refresher.

So back to my lack of fashion sense. I used to think I had a decent sense of style. And that bad choices were due to things like “It was the 80’s!” Or, “I had just had kids!” But after seeing these pics as a whole, I have come to the terrible realization that this isn’t true. What IS true is that I have never been much of a fashionista. And as I ponder this thought, I have come to the conclusion that this is the result of none of my friends or family doing their job of telling me I looked ridiculous over the years. I blame them entirely.

For example, back in grad school someone should have told me that palazzo pants were not flattering on short-waisted, busty gals. (I don’t usually use the word “gals” as it makes me sound like I was born in the 40’s, but it feels appropriate here. By the way, this is the same reason I don’t like the word “slacks”). Or how about the time I experimented with giant stretchy headbands? All anyone had to say was, “Hey, do you have a toothache?” and I would have gotten the picture. And let’s not forget my beret stage. Why wear it in the style of a cute french girl when I could wear it low and backwards like Samuel Jackson? And what about the unfortunate Summer Of The Do-rag? And worst of all was my attempt in 8th grade to look like Olivia Newton-John in the “Let’s Get Physical” video. My short haircut and subsequent perm were less Olivia and more Kid ‘N Play.

Now, I will say there was a short stint when I worked with a bunch of women who had high fashion and influenced me a bit. But in general those days are long gone. Where clothes labeled Ann Taylor and Banana Republic once hung in my closet there are now clothes with tags that say Merona and Mossimo. When I am wearing even the slightest upgrade in outfit (basically anything not stretchy), my kids will do a double-take and ask me “Where are you going? Why do you look like that?” And my favorite, “You look like you have a job.”

I did hesitate to post this blog entry. But not because I am embarrassed. No, my biggest fear about this entry is that it might be the pinnacle of my blogging career. I mean, I really can’t think of anything funnier than this 6th grade picture. I guess the good thing is that when people see this photo, they are often surprised it is me. So I’m going to assume that means I’ve improved somewhat over the last 35 years.

And you know what else? Not one of those boys that dated me ditched me after my brother showed them this picture.

Thank God personality matters.

death, Family, grief, humor, Uncategorized

The Ace of all Aces

The Ace of all Aces!

The King of all Kings!

The Leader of all Leaders!

The People’s Choice!

Ace! Ace! Ace! Ace!

I don’t remember how or why it started, but at some point in my youth, my dad decided to compose a chant about himself. Even more hilarious is that my cousins and I (at this point we were nine girls; honestly, I can’t see a group of boys doing this) would spontaneously cheer these words for him at family functions for no apparent reason.

But I have a feeling my dad was used to getting his way from the beginning. In this picture that is over 60 years old, his handsomeness is still timeless. Your eyes go directly to him; smack in the middle, staring right at the camera. And although it isn’t politically correct to say, he looks pretty badass with that cigarette hanging out of his mouth surrounded by a bunch of girls. You can hardly blame my mom for falling for him at only 14 years old.

Side note:

My Thea Cassie, who is my dad’s oldest sister, told me this weekend that not only is my dad just 16 years old in this picture (believe me, I questioned this and tried to do the math working backwards from marriage and the Air Force and other milestones, but, I came to the conclusion that A) I think she may be right and B) Don’t argue with your 88-year-old aunt)…but that this was a CHURCH event. Which frankly, is more believable than the age part. So basically, my 16-year-old dad who looks about 25 in this picture is smoking and drinking at a church party. Which sounds about right for him.

Last Tuesday marked 19 years that he has been gone. Sunday was Father’s Day. I’ve spent a lot of time this past week thinking about him. And here’s the thing: When someone close to you dies, I mean really close to you, your memories aren’t about significant events or holidays. The things you go back to are the everyday minutiae; the simple details that make a person who they are.

For example:

During family vacations, meals weren’t planned around activities, activities were planned around meals. Before we even finished breakfast Dad would invariably ask, “Okay, gang, where are we going for lunch?” The in-between was inconsequential.

Every Sunday morning on our way to church we were forced to suffer through “Breakfast with Sinatra,” a radio program that started at 8am. Much to our dismay, it went until noon; meaning often we would catch the tail end of the show on the way HOME from church, too.

He only smoked Kent cigarettes. And boy did he smoke them.

He and one of his friends used to go to the track together all the time and bet on the horses. They invited me to go with them once, and we sat in the fancy seats and got waited on while we watched the races. It wasn’t until later that I found out they only took me so I could claim their big win from the day before and they wouldn’t have to pay the taxes.

He LOVED the soundtrack to The Bodyguard. Much to our annoyance, he would blast Whitney Houston’s “I Will Always Love You” on the CD player all the time.

He may have been the funniest man on the planet. It was a major win to get him to laugh at anything other than his own jokes. And believe me, I tried. Once, I took wallet-sized copies of my sorority composite picture and put them in random places in his bedroom. My sister and I were hysterical as we put one in his pajama pocket (oh yes, he wore old-timey men’s pajamas that were a matching set complete with front breast pocket), one on his pillow, one on the bathroom mirror. Nothing. Not. One. Single. Word. He would not give me the satisfaction of a laugh. In fact, this would have been one of the times where he would have casually taken the picture off of his pillow straight-faced and said, “I got four kids and none of them’s normal.”

He drank scotch on the rocks. And it had to be J&B. Once he requested it at a new local restaurant that had just opened. They didn’t have it, but the owner remembered and the next time we went in it had been stocked just for him.

He loved catalog shopping. I’d hate to think what would have happened if the internet or Amazon was around before he died. He would buy random stuff all the time: Native American decorative plates, stamp collections, themed chess sets. And his favorite purchase: 2-for-1 twill chinos. They were $6. Because you don’t forget when your dad buys (and wears) six-dollar pants from a catalog.

He was obsessed with celebrity height. You couldn’t get through a television shown without him making some comment about the height of the leading man. “You know, Sal,” he’d say with disdain, “Mel Gibson is only 5’6”.

I’ll end the way he liked to end things, whether it was a party or a vacation or even the close of a long day, by borrowing his signature words:

Well, gang, that’s a wrap.

Happy Father’s Day, Ace. ❤️❤️❤️ I miss you.

aging, humor, Uncategorized

Jewel Rules

When I wrote the title for this, it hit me that it could be read two ways: Jewel Rules, as in here are some guidelines; or Jewel Rules, as in JEWEL ROCKS!!!! It should definitely be taken as the former.

Now, I realize that there are lots of options when it comes to grocery shopping. Most people I know prefer Trader Joe’s or Mariano’s to Jewel. But let’s face it; when you need a last-minute item in the middle of making dinner, or want to make a quick stop on your way home, there is nothing more convenient than the Jewel on the corner. However, if you are going to brave the check-out aisles of this local gem, you need to be prepared by following some general rules.

Rule #1: Go in with a positive attitude and loads of self-confidence.

I have found that the cashiers are disarmingly upfront and honest. One day I went to my local Jewel and got in “Linda’s” line. (Name has been changed to protect ME. I’m scared of her). Linda often waits on me. Although she is speedy, she is Not Happy. She seems annoyed all the time at every moment with everybody who works there. Linda rolls her eyes and has a permanent grimace. She has no ability to keep her emotions in check; they are written all over her face. If there were a thought bubble above her head I think it would say “I hate working at the Jewel and all these co-workers are so annoying and I should get better pay and hours and this Monopoly game is DUMB and a waste of time and it’s only for people who like to sort and organize and never win anything and also when I get home I have to make dinner and even though I work at a grocery store thinking of what to make for dinner is the worst part of my day and I can’t believe my husband still doesn’t know how to load the dishwasher correctly after 20 years of marriage.” Just a guess.

I’m not REALLY complaining, even though it seems if you are in customer service you should at least pretend to be in a good mood. I know better than to ask “how’s it going” to her because she is going to tell me the truth. I feel like maybe she should work in the stock room so she doesn’t have to come into contact with that many customers. Or get her anger out by frosting cakes in the bakery. When a customer asks her to write “Happy Birthday Julie” in purple, she can write “Happy Birthday Julie In Purple” on the cake and go home and rub her hands in an evil manner and cackle to herself that her passive aggressive trick has worked. But then she will remember she still has to think about dinner and re-load the dishwasher.

Back to my story. Recently I got in her line. I had just come from lunch with a friend. Now I did not realize that as much as we recognize the checkers and baggers, they also recognize us the customers. So while Linda is ringing up my items she is looking down at the scanner. She has not yet noticed me. When she gets to the end, she finally looks up and makes eye contact with me. And then she does a double take. Like one of those double takes where if she were a cartoon character it would have come with Hanna-Barbera sound effects.

And then she says to me: “WOW. You look pretty today.”

Let me stress to you this was not a compliment. This was an “I am in complete shock because usually when you come here you look like crap and who knew with a little makeup on and your hair not in a pony you would look so completely different” comment. And like all self-deprecating women, I start to explain away WHY I looked so nice that day. “Oh, haha, yes, I have makeup on. I look different. Blah Blah I did my hair blah blah I had lunch with a friend hee hee blah blah blah blah.”

What I should have said was “Why so surprised, Linda? Don’t I USUALLY look good?” But I would never say that because Linda would probably answer me truthfully again and I would feel bad, so basically I just laughed a fake laugh and decided that now even the grocery store is off-limits for my usual uniform of no makeup and yoga clothes. OR..if I was a self-empowerment blogger I would say that my REAL AUTHENTIC self is good enough for Jewel and Linda and maybe I will just commit to looking like “myself” at all times and WHO CARES. But thank God I am not a life-coach-destiny-finder-blogger because that would be boring and not funny and certainly not MY TRUTH. Haha. See what I did there?

Rule #2: No, really, have loads of self-confidence.

Occasionally I will purchase alcohol and occasionally I will get carded. Okay. Not really. But, this did actually happen to me in the somewhat recent past. We have all been there. Super excited when some naive checker sees your bottle of wine and asks to see your ID. You are thinking you are all cool that someone thinks you are under 21, but guess what? They have to card everyone who looks under 35 so sorry they don’t think you are still in college. But at my age, thinking I may be under 35 is still pretty awesome.

So one day I get in line and start loading items on to the conveyor belt. My back is to the checker as I am facing the cart and unloading. As I place the alcohol on the belt I hear the woman (NOT LINDA) say “ID please.” I continue to unload (very smugly I might add) and when I am finished I reach for my purse to grab my ID. As I turn, the cashier gets one look at my face and says, “OH. NEVER MIND.”

THIS ACTUALLY HAPPENED. SOMEONE THOUGHT I WAS UNDER 21 (OR 35) FROM THE BACK BUT CLEARLY REALIZED HER ERROR WHEN SHE SAW MY FACE.

As in, oh now that I saw your face clearly you don’t need to show me your birthdate because, boy, you are definitely old enough to drink wine and hey maybe you would like me to go get you some more so you can drown your sorrows away you old crypt-keeper mom.

I realize this could be a positive. Maybe my backside looks young. Wink wink. I mean, I could get on board with that. Although that still means from the front not so much. Could it be I have an under 21 or 35 butt? This is a longshot. And no, I will NOT be posting a picture of me from behind to get everyone’s opinions. Although that would be hilarious and possibly something I might do just to be funny. How would that work? “Hey, Franny, come take a pic of my bum for the internet.” That does NOT sound like a conversation I want to have with her and I sure don’t want to see the results of that poll.

Rule #3: Self-confidence will sometimes backfire.

This past winter I was in line once again when the man behind me started chatting with me. If you know me, then you know this is not unusual. I am outgoing and talkative and can make conversation with anyone and often do so. He was probably in his late 50’s to early 60’s. Why do I mention this? You know exactly why. And yes, I realize that this age group is only one generation or so above me, but still. In my head I am not Almost 50. In my head when I was hanging out with my 23-year-old adorable nephew last week I was saying “I wonder if everyone thinks he is my boyfriend” until he said out loud, “I wonder if people think you are my mom” and there was nothing much to say after that.

Anyway, this gentleman and I were talking about the weather or some other totally boring topic. I am sure he thought I was flirting since men seem to think Talking=Flirting and for some reason have been wrongfully blessed with an extra share of unwarranted self-confidence. But I didn’t really care as I was just being myself and friendly. So I finished paying and went out to my car. As I was pulling away, there he was crossing right in front of me to get to his car. I waited for him to cross so as not to hit him. Apparently, not hitting someone with your car is comparable to “Hey big boy, I think you are hot so come and talk to me at my window.” Which is what he did. He flagged me down and God knows what I was thinking as I rolled down my window and watched him walk over to me and say……..”Hey, I just wanted to tell you that you’re a hot mom.”

Let me tell you, I am having trouble even writing this I am so embarrassed and uncomfortable. Being complimented is nice. I suppose I should be grateful that anyone thinks I’m a “hot mom.” But let’s just really dissect this can we?

1) An old man thought I was in his league. That’s the horrible un-politically correct truth.

2) He didn’t question I was a mom. I obviously fit the stereotype of a mom. Was it the go-gurt I had in the cart? The Star Wars Band-Aids? Nope. Let’s face it. It was me. To put it bluntly, it was a day where Linda would have recognized me right away.

3) I looked terrible. When you look bad and someone compliments you it’s like a math equation that equals zero. I look terrible + you think I look good = you have terrible taste and judgement /someone with terrible taste and judgement thinks I’m hot = I must be gross = I am a troll that should go live under a bridge.

If you don’t believe, me here I am right after a got home. (And, yes, I did make Franny take this picture).

death, Family, grief, humor, Motherhood

There’s Something About Mary….

My aunt and my mom were best friends. I assume they still are best friends. Just best friends Somewhere Else. With those two it’s a real toss-up on where they could be. I think I probably was introduced to the concepts of “gossip” and “complaining” from them. This is not a criticism. This is a Fact. This is a Sister Thing. If you have a sister, you know. And if you are saying to yourself right now “My sister and I don’t gossip or complain at all” then you are either lying or adopted. And you are missing out. Because this is what sisters are for.

My Aunt Mary lived two hours away in the great city of Toledo. We called her Thea Mimi because Thea is “Aunt” in Greek and “Mimi” was what my uncle called her when he was little, and I guess it just stuck. When she came to visit for the day it was a real treat. I remember being so excited to see her car in the driveway. She was the Cool Aunt. She would never show up empty-handed. She started me and my sisters each on a collection of miniature ceramic animals. I still cherish mine. My mom, on the other hand, did not do Fun-Gifts-for-No-Reason. When we would visit Thea Mimi for a couple of days she would take us for ice cream at Zipz, a place shaped like an igloo where you could make your own sundae. My mom bought vanilla no- brand ice cream from Kroger. Thea Mimi fed so many wildlife creatures they were comfortable coming up to her back-patio door asking for food. It was like something out of a Disney movie over there. The closest we got to wildlife coming up to our door was one summer when a raccoon was stuck between our trash compactor and kitchen cabinet. She belonged to The Toledo Club and was on the board of the Toledo Art Museum. My mom played a monthly pinochle game with the neighborhood ladies.

Side Note:

Before one of my relatives comments that my mom was great and awesome and all the things I already know but am ignoring and not writing about in this blog in the name of HUMOR, I will say that my aunt had only had one child, my cousin Cate, who was older than us and already away at college by the time I was 6, so she had time to spoil us. My mom had three daughters plus one First-Male-Grandchild-of-a-Greek-Family-Named-After-the-Grandfather-so-let’s-have-a-200-person-Christening-for-him-at-a-Banquet-Hall-with-a-Band, so she had her hands full. (No, I’m not bitter. And yes, that’s for another blog entry someday.) So, she was busy and overwhelmed and didn’t have time for ceramic animals, woodland creatures, or ice cream trips. I do remember us eating at Kmart’s diner often, though.

But even at that age, it wasn’t the presents that I looked forward to the most. It was just her being there. Everything was more fun with her around. I couldn’t even tell you why. Or maybe I could. She had funny stories. She included us kids in the conversation. She always carried around a tiny golden box filled with her teeny tiny saccharin tablets. She had small delicate hands. She laughed a lot. And as I’m writing this I am realizing she was much more affectionate than my mom was. My mom was not much of a hugger, but my aunt would envelope you into her arms and you felt really loved.

WARNING: HERE IS WHERE MY STORY STOPS BEING FUNNY SO STOP READING IF YOU AREN’T IN THE MOOD FOR SERIOUS TALK.

She and my mom died one month apart. If the internet was around then I’m sure their story would go viral as it was a strange series of events that seemed more divine than coincidental. Neither one of them knew that the other died. That is a story in and of itself, but for another time. My faith and my strong belief in sisterhood tell me it would have been hard for either one of them to survive without the other.

What happens when your mom dies a month before your treasured aunt, is that you don’t really get to grieve that second important person. The first grief is so overwhelming that you just bury the second one along with it. Then one day you start writing a blog entry about Mother’s Day and your own mother and then her sister and then sisters and death and everything in between and you realize what started out as one thing has ended up being something very different. I am starting to learn that this is what happens when you begin to write. I did not intend to write about Thea Mimi. But now I realize that this turned into a way for me to finally grieve for her after so many years.

Mother’s Day came and went yesterday. Tomorrow is Thea Mimi’s birthday. Friday is my mom’s. Every year this week creeps up on me. This has been a hard last few days. I don’t know when I will fully embrace this day as my own and not think about what I have lost as a daughter and sister rather than what I have gained as a mother. I grieve for my mom. I grieve for my aunt. I grieve for my sister.

***I realized while searching that there aren’t enough pictures of my Thea Mimi. Probably because she was the family photographer. She was an amateur, but she was good at it. I love that she is holding her camera here, as if someone caught her out from behind the lens, smiling her ever-present smile.***

Sisters

Never a Dulles Moment

Finding the absurd in the ordinary