In this adult life I’ve been existing in, what with the being an orphan and all, holidays have been missing a certain something on which I couldn’t quite put the old finger.

Last night, though, I solved the mystery and perhaps it will make sense to those Irish Catholics or possibly Jews among you bored, I mean thoughtful, readers out there. My holidays have been relatively guilt-free with the passing of Pat.

Don’t get me wrong, I really do wish Pat lived through more holidays and happily (or about as happy as she could constitutionally muster). But, the woman was a master at making her baby daughter (and all of her children and her siblings and her students and likely random strangers on the street) feel helluva guilty. No matter what, she did more for you than any effort on your part could ever hope to equalize.

I’m trying to think of a good example of the Pat guilt conversations. Here’s one, which has stuck in my head for a good 20 years now. I went to an expensive private college, because it had the kind of journalistic writing program I wanted, and for pride and values and not letting the goddamn world keep her down any more than it already did, Pat, goddamnit, made it clear that her kids were going to school anywhere they wanted.

(OK, not anywhere, she wouldn’t let me apply to Barnard and/or Columbia’s journalism school, because the idea of her daughter in the mean streets of NYC ghetto was untenable. And, there were many arguments over Holy Cross, because it was small and not very far away and Catholic and not very far away. I chose 326 miles away. Coincidence? I think not.)

So, anyway, I froze my ass off in Syracuse and studied pretty seriously, because there was fuckall else to do in arctic February.

Money was pretty tight, and tuition was pretty high, and I purposely worked hard enough to get a couple of bucks extra in financial aid via academic scholarship. Only in Pat’s world, and it was a world of extreme levels of pride, extra cash from the school was charity and she wasn’t taking charity from no one. Therefore, she never signed and mailed the forms that she, as my parent and guardian, was required.

Nevertheless, there were moments when the bills from the bursar’s office were looking to be unpaid. Honestly, I could never quite tell if the money was non-existent or my mother was just habitually late in bill paying. I called home, needing to know whether I could stay or should line up some work back home to come back another semester.

The guilt above all other guilt, the alpha-omega of gut-wrenching, heart-aching, ungrateful kid conversation ensued. She had discovered that she could stretch even Hamburger Helper to cut back on costs. In fact, she had been eating almost exclusively items she could buy with a coupon or skipping meals entirely to save for my tuition. At one moment, she implied that the meat in catfood was essentially the same as buying a can of tuna.

(That last is classic, diva, drama-queen Pat. She wouldn’t actually eat pet food, but she loved the drama of suggesting the possibility. (As a note, there is absolutely no resemblance in this point to this author. I fucking swear.)

So, with coupons and grit, I graduated an expensive school with honors, and she almost watched me do it (but had to go get air).

Anyway, I was remembering all of this guilt, because M.’s landlady, who is extremely nice to him, has been cooking up a storm. She made spaghetti and sauce the night my plane came in, so I would have something to heat and eat on my midnight arrival. Last night, she made a gigantic pot of chicken stew with dumplings and wouldn’t let me do any of the cleaning up. For breakfast, there was fresh brewed coffee and sausages, and tonight a roast pork is planned, which she will start as we roam around sightseeing and what not.

I haven’t done anything and I surely haven’t done enough. Pat’s spirit is here for the holidays.

Perhaps one of the biggest mysteries of my adult life has just been solved, I think.

To back track, I loved my mom in a lot of ways (and by the way, Pat would have balked at my invoking the word love in her direction, forget about publicly, that would have been inexcusable), but in so many ways her irrational…I don’t know the word to use… phobias, maybe, but also belief system, whatever it was, it was infuriating. The saddest thing about her death, which I think affected a lot of people, most especially her siblings, was the sense it didn’t have to be. Not like with a sudden tragedy, act of god, car accident dramatic sense of it didn’t have to be. No, a literal couldn’t this whole thing have been avoided somehow feeling. Maybe I’m not explaining it well, but throughout the funeral and still to this day, you almost couldn’t, can’t help comparing other women her age (or the age should would have been) and thinking “Hey, they’re alive and doing stuff, why isn’t she?” She allowed her life force to just slip away.

There were symptoms, harbingers of the reality, something just ain’t quite right. Hair loss (and I don’t mean thinning I mean long gone), dessicated skin, appetite issues, chronic pain and wearing sweaters in June. The pain was epic and omnipresent. Walking ached and ached some more over that. (She always said she was arthritic, and she had been treated sometime circa 1964 for it. She never had any of the swollen, gnarled joints of arthritis, and who the fuck knows where medical science was 40 fucking years ago. The weird part is it was always about walking and her legs, but not about her knees, and almost to the end she used her hands to build dollhouses, still able to grip and lift.)

And, of course, there was the chronic depression, which could have been the angst of her ancestors, who wrote poetry and drank and described a bitter and real life and made themselves miserable and wonderful simultaneously (at least, I guess, that’s what I think of when I think of people like Joyce and Shaw). Maybe it was depression with cause, like the three people I know who broke a little bit of her irreparably when they died (a brother, a husband and a boy, essentially part son, part grandson, but it’s complicated). And, those losses were the big ones, the earthquakes. There were more and more life things conspiring against her, sometimes you could almost think, who wouldn’t be depressed?

But, today, with one phone call that’s part worry and relief, all of the questions are answered. It’s all just a fucking hormone. A slight imbalance, adjustable and maintainable by modern medicine.

I’ll stop being all philosophically, bullshitty and cut to the chase, my sister called. She’s not been feeling well (the depth of that statement is really only just being revealed). Finally, she went to the doctor, who was shocked to find she is rocking the charts with record high scores in whatever the test is that comes up hypothyroid!

So, what if you have hypothyroid problems, what happens? From here I got this list:
Fatigue
Weakness
Weight gain or increased difficulty losing weight
Coarse, dry hair
Dry, rough pale skin
Hair loss
Cold intolerance (can’t tolerate the cold like those around you)
Muscle cramps and frequent muscle aches
Constipation
Depression
Irritability
Memory loss
Abnormal menstrual cycles
Decreased libido

I don’t know about the constipation, menstrual cycles or libido, because we weren’t the kind of family to ever talk about that stuff, but I’ll vouch for the rest as matching the very things Pat worried about most.

Fucking hell, she should have gone to the GODDAMN doctors.

Before the festival I dubbed “Pat Day” is too far away, shadowed by the foolish little holiday of St. Patrick’s Day (which I think is the true heart of American commercialism in the calendar), I want to dedicate a little virtual real estate to the woman, the legend, the “crab” that was Pat. Pat was my mom, who died a couple of years ago, and who would kill me for writing about her if she were here. For about as long as I can remember I referred to her as “Pat,” as, of course, did all of her contemporaries, and pretty much everyone I’ve ever met who knew her. I’m not sure anyone ever called her “Patricia,” although “Patty Anne” may have been used to bug her. Per her siblings, she was “Pat the Crab,” since she was known for her sunny personality even as a kid. (This may very well be inaccurate, sibling rivalry; even as they are all in retirement age, there’s still some there. You just can never truly believe what a brother or sister says about you, especially in a big family. This I know and this I hold to be true, regardless of what blood-related ‘blog readers may argue.)

As an adult, I found a Mother’s Day card I had given her sometime back. It was either dated as being given during the 1970s, or judging by the childish handwriting, it was clearly from me when I was in elementary school. It said, “To Pat, Happy Mother’s Day.” That’s a pretty accurate barometer of how she is eternally Pat to me.

Anyway, she was pretty unique to say the least. She was when I was very young, during the aforementioned 70s, the only mom around who wore sneakers. Mothers still wore slacks and nylons and shoes with heels even around the house, except for the ones that wore housecoats and slippers for house work. They, the housecoated ones, always shuffled around with a cleaning rag in their pockets, but when they left the house any distance at all, they were coiffed and dressed to a fare-the-well.

Somewhere far, far away, not physically but psychologically, the Women’s Liberation Movement was underway. But, in my town, slacks, nylons, purses on laps, napkins (or Kleenexes in a pinch) covering heads during Mass, were all de reguir. But, as she was one of the few working (let alone single, widowed) moms literally chasing five kids, somewhere a long the lines she tried on her own pair during one of our pilgrimages to the Randy Sneaker Factory, where our feet were outfitted with “almost perfect” factory seconds every year. She would never, ever have said the “F-word,” but in her actions Pat waved a big fuck you to established fashion and went for comfort (although, again literally, even in death she still wore nylon pantyhose with sneakers, and I believe she may never have owned her own pair of socks (leastways, not when there was a ragbag of mismatched socks from her kids to wear)).

In summer, the sneakers became Dr. Scholl’s sandals, and believe me it’s a truly frightening moment as a kid when you are chased for some transgression by a gravely pissed off woman brandishing a solid wooden shoe. When she caught me there was a pause of recognition shared between us, when we both realized that a beating with a Dr. Scholl was pretty untenable. Fucking hell of a bluff, though.

I’m trying to remember a good line from Pat, which would thoroughly encapsulate her wit and fucking harshly biting sarcasm. She could just drip acid sometimes, but it was usually unbelievably funny. One line, I once used to use in stand up comedy, was in regard to my taking the quiz to be a contestant on Jeopardy. When I failed to make the cut, she told me “It’s time to admit you’re really more Wheel of Fortune caliber,” or something like that. The best part is she would stay stuff like that as though she were comforting in the face of your misfortune, but subtextually her tone was laden with a deadpan assertion about your relative stupidity. Another favorite is that she returned a letter my oldest brother had sent home when he was first in college; it was corrected in red pen for grammar and spelling. Nice way to get more letters, Mom.

I guess another classic favorite of mine happened a few years back, when she was still going out and about on her own. At a local store, she ran into the woman with whom I was a pretty constant companion in junior high and high school. Even when we were 12, my mother hated this little girl and would, when she left my house, badger me about various aspects of her personality she found loathesome.

As a complete tangent, Pat did possess some amazing, laser-beam honed skills for spotting rotten people. If Pat met you and decreed you unworthy, at some time you would prove yourself to be kind of a shit. Conversely, if you were a classic underdog, and Pat found something redeeming in you, it would generally turn out that you were a rough diamond who was really decent. I think phoniness especially got you an instant thumbs down. If you were a phony priest, forget it, you were doubly cursed. You might as well be a cannabilistic baby eater for all the contempt she might shower down upon you. She was absolutely correct in all points against the friend mentioned above and her family, who are truly the most self-satisfied, narrow-minded, selfish, small clan of people I have ever met.

Anyway, while shopping she runs into this woman who at the time was an adult in her 30s, no longer the 12 year old she hated. They chat, and I am sure my mother sincerely was courteous and polite, and it’s hard to say whether or not she mentioned the woman’s appearance, since I wasn’t there. But, she took note of how the woman had ballooned from chubby adolescence into full-on obesity. I haven’t seen her, but I’ve heard she is remarkably obese.

Pat gets home and calls me, chatting a bit uncharacteristically chipper and full of some mischevious energy. She gets around to running into the woman while shopping. All of this conversation is completely staged by her, so that she can finally blurt out, “You know, if you ever get that fat, I know what I’ll get you for your birthday and Christmas and any holiday.”

“Oh Yeah, Mom, what’s that?”

“Jenny Craig. I’m getting you Jenny Craig for everything if you become as big as a house.” After cracking herself up, she got off the phone.

If anyone out there who knew Pat, the legend herself, please drop a comment below or send me an email.

One thing I think everyone I know would agree on is that she was pretty unique, and since she’s not around to tell me to knock it off, I would like to share a bit of her memory with the world (or the unread corner right here, anyway).

It’s a weird day today. I’m swamped at work, I feel unrested from the weekend respite, described below, and today is the day that would be my Mom’s birthday if she were here.

So, rather than dwell in the mourning and depression that unfortunately clouded her life and still causes, I think, everyone in our family to pause now and again, I want to declare today officially:

PAT DAY!

Go out, do something slightly unconventional, question authority, help someone in need, and later on, say something so sarcastic and cutting, but truthful and witty, that it causes the listener a bit of an intake of breath.

These are the things I learned from my Mom.

TO PAT! (Who would have been 75 today, and even as a ghost may not forgive me for publishing her age. I can’t even imagine what the retribution would be were she dwelling in this mortal coil.)

Spending the weekend around death isn’t what I’d call relaxing, but it does make you think about life. I headed up to Maine for the funeral of my friend’s brother. I ended up hanging out with her college roommate, while our mutual friend was spending time with her family and doing all the things you do to try to deal with an undealable loss. (I think the worst part of wakes and funerals and all of the rituals is that they can’t really do that much for the grieving process. They’re necessary, but in the end only time helps when you lose someone.)

Anyway, so my friend, her college friends and I are all the same age, and it’s an interesting age overall. Over a few glasses of wine, the college roommate and I compared notes on mistakes we’ve made with men (or they made with us) and the choices you make now. I think that now more than any time in my life I feel like I have choices and that I am in charge of myself. A lot of what we talked about was the drama inherent in bad relationships (the fights, the silences, the jockeying for position, late night calls, jealousy, excitement, quote-passion-unquote), versus the relative peace we seek now. We have both been lucky enough to meet men now who are more grounded and treat us well. Actually, it’s probably not luck. For me, I think I am better prepared now to have a relationship without all of the hysteria, and I have the confidence to expect and appreciate being treated well. It was fun to compare notes, though, on the before and after and the new guys, who never seem to make a big deal out of anything.

It’s probably small to discover that sharing is a worthwhile endeavor.

In fact, if I were to have a friend who isn’t 40, I might tell her to relax a little about external symbols. You could always end up with incredible payback on your tenth anniversary.

On a lighter note, M. just told me something I’m still laughing about. It’s a private joke but a good one. Life might not be so bad if you know someone who can make you smile.

And, here’s a short list of what I now look for in a man:

no hitting (OK, that’s not new)

no belittling

no hassles

no insults

no making me feeling like being with him is a favor

ability to converse with me

ability to converse with people I introduce to him

ability to cope with grown up scenarios

ability to laugh

ability to laugh at himself

ability to tolerate my chronic lateness

ability to appreciate the many wonderful qualities I suspect I might possess, even if I don’t know what they are

kindness

respect

And, if he’s cute with good hair and an Ivy education, that’s all bonus.

By the way, I figured out why I’ve dated foreign men. I’m too much of a pussy to be an actual expatriate. I mean I should be drinking coffee in some smokey European cafe, criticizing Bush, planning the revolution and generally feeling superior. But, damn, I like a good, hot shower. I woke up in a hotel room with clean sheets, a coffeemaker, a complimentary Sunday newspaper, a room service breakfast by way of Friendly’s, home of the Caramel Fudge Brownie Sundae. Fuck the revolution, when I can get French Toast delivered to my room. America and convenience, it’s almost worth the Bush administration’s drive to erode our Bill of Rights and regulate the “shit” out of us.