I know she obviously has deep seated problems. I know she needs help. And YES I KNOW I can’t say a damn thing cause I carried a little thing of Gregory’s ashes with me for awhile, but I wasn’t going around DIPPING MY FINGER IN HIM. And I will admit, I did spill a little of him him once during an “incident”, but where he laid, he stayed.

This woman has lost her mind.

Bless her heart.

When G first died, I didn’t want to talk about it. I wrote about it, sure, but that and actually forming the words “My husband is dead” are totally different.

Then, I couldn’t stop talking about it. To friends, strangers, people I just met. I’d blurt out “I’m a widow” just like a normal person would say how great the weather was. I think I wanted to get it out there and maybe if I made people uncomfortably aware of it, they wouldn’t want to talk to me about it. My lame attempt at reverse psychology. Worked for awhile. The widow cooties are strong, not unlike The Force.

And then, just like that, the pendulum swung again and I didn’t talk about it. For a while anyway. Then I went to NYC and with the support of friends I sat on a dais surrounded by amazing people and talked about it, and I was alright with that in that moment.

But my daddy died. And I haven’t really talked about that yet.

I can’t.

I’m afraid I won’t be able to handle the hard truth that the most important person ever in my life is gone, and that will be the final shove that sends me off into the land of hoarders, bag ladies and people who get “crazy checks” as my aunt called them each time she opened hers.

My mother talks a bit too much for me sometimes. She has taken on this habit of telling everyone we encounter in inquisitive situations that she and I are both widows, and that I lost my father and my husband within 9 months of each other. Then of course I get the doe-eyes and the sympathy face while I squirm silently and nod my head while I’m sure my eyes glaze over like the cuckoo they think I am.

Lately she has become obsessed with things being “in order” and as she puts it – “making sure I am taken care of when she dies.” Even at the car dealership. While making sure she had the service records changed to her name, the lady behind the counter asked why. My mom teared up and turned to me, and on cue and like a robot, I responded “My dad died and she wants to put it in her name.” And as soon as my mom regains her composure? Yep. She says it. I know it by heart. I’m a widow, my daughter is too, she lost her daddy and her husband, yadda yadda yadda…and then she changed her game, put her hand on my arm and said “she’s got to get back out there.” Like the kids say, FML. At this point I want to just slide down into the floor and be done with the entire conversation. But, because I love my mother and in some strange way this is her way of coping with it, I stand there and smile and nod and glaze over like a Krispy Kreme.

Oh I’m “out there” alright. That just booted me straight into orbit.

Anyway, this conversation has happened several times, albeit minus the “getting out there”  and I’m not so sure what to do about it. Every time I try to talk to my mom about the whole thing she starts to cry, I start to cry, and I get a good dose of the guilt monster and I STFU.

It really grates on me, but I think about my mom, and the 43 years she and my dad were together, and I feel bad saying something. So then I make myself feel bad because I’m comparing my 6 year relationship with theirs and it’s apples and oranges and ohmygawd there I go making myself psycho in my head again. No wonder so many people are medicated, your damn mind can make you crazy (er).

So I write about it. I type my feelings here and sometimes I publish them and sometimes I don’t, but I get them out. I roto-rooter out the things that clog my brain and my heart and hope that one day, I can really talk about it.

I just hope that someone will be listening.

Yesterday I briefly entered the Twilight Zone.

My mom and I were sitting on the side porch watching hummingbirds, talking about normal stuff and trying not to move too much after a huge lunch.

And then, she said this …..

“I got asked out on a date the other day.”

After my heart resumed beating I nonchalantly replied “Oh really?” while keeping a death grip on the swing.

She then proceeded to tell me that she was shocked when it happened. She couldn’t believe it but laughed because “she’s still got it” and was flattered but not ready.

She’s not ready ?

WHAT ABOUT ME ?!

Now, my mom is, well, let’s just say she’s the same age as the year I was born. But she looks much younger. The woman has aged well. I covet those particular genes. See? This was taken this past July. And she doesn’t dye her hair or have a plastic surgeon.

My mother cannot go on a date. She’s my MOTHER. MY FATHER’S wife. Yes, I am aware that my father is no longer with us. But I want to know who in the hell has the nerve to ask my mom out less than 9 months after my daddy died. A date? ACK.

Unless it’s this guy, it’s not happenin’…..

(Dad would approve. He loved The Donald. Plus he could keep us both in shoes. Forevah. And the hair? Bygones.)

*sigh*

I thought parents were supposed to be the ones worrying about the kids going on dates.

How did I get to bizarro world?