Eight Months

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My mom, while pregnant with me, and dad. (1972).

(WARNING: Post may incite some sadness).

It’s been eight months since my mother died. I don’t think people die all of a sudden, so it’s been a eight months-ish.

I have accused myself of sharing too many intimate details on this blog.  However, given the choice between compulsive oversharing and depression/crippling anxiety, I’ll risk judgment from the imaginary professional acquaintances in my head…so judge away.

There really is no way to deal with losing your mother.  Something goes wrong and I want to tell her about it.   Something goes right and I want to talk to her.   I wanted to tell her about my tooth that still might need a root canal.  Or that I worked as a “background artist” in my friend Maria’s show.  (They did give me a dressing room) Or that I had a reading of my next play where I Deviled Eggs because I (finally) figured out the magic of mayo and mustard, or about my amazing fur vest find at the Jewish Women’s Council thrift shop during the unbearable LA heat wave. I wanted to tell her about her memorial (and her funeral) and how many people showed up, or about the Dia De Los Muertos altar that we are making.  Nobody talks about death in our culture because nobody wants to accept that there is no right way to deal with it.  You can’t write a “How To…” list or any kind of list.  Just sit there and feel loss and, maybe, if you believe in that kind of thing, hope to get a sign from beyond.  (They say to wait a year before contacting a medium.)  Basically, shit gets real and you just deal.  Welcome to the crappy part of life.


My mom always loved Ricardo Montalbán….but how creepy was this show?

As a child, my mother limited my television viewing schedule to Saturday nights and one hour on Sunday.   However, in the last years of her life my mom’s opinion of TV, along with many established critics, changed and she watched a lot of it.   She loved “Grimm,” “The Big Bang Theory,” and, yes, “Castle.”  For a librarian and English major who loved Masterpiece theater, her taste in TV shows remains a great mystery to me.   Sure, we once lived for “The Love Boat” and “Fantasy Island,” but that was in 1980.  In the past few years I sat through more than a few episodes of  “Castle” in a state of exasperation.   It was either that or ‘Step Up Revolution’ (“It’s about dancing” she would say).   However, nothing could compare to ‘Frazier.’

I wish I could watch terrible TV with her now.



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