Undoubtedly, I’m driving M. up a wall. The thing I can’t write about, because it may negatively impact my ability to pay my half of the mortgage, is all I fucking talk about.

Here’s the tangential fun of it all, though. In the midst of a work brouhaha, I ended up having a long conversation with someone I only know by phone and only have known on the surface. One of those folks who you might chat with in a group, albeit virtually, maybe both your names float on the cc list of an email or two. The constant flow of people in your life that aren’t really in it.

Now, though, because of a little cause and effect fall out, we were on the horn swapping info and tales. Turns out, it was strangers bonding over dead mother stories. Better yet, it was the kind of story sharing where it could be alright to call them dead mother stories.

Her loss is much, much more recent than mine. But, at 93 and still of sound mind, her mother sounded ready to go and by consequence so was her family. There’s actually a great story in it. After a fall from possibly a mini-stroke, she declared herself ready to die and announced it as a done deal. Her dutiful daughter politely waited in the next room. Time passed, and then a shout of “It was a fake. I’m not going to die today.”

There’s something about the “It’s a fake” line that kills me. Not only can I imagine Pat in a state of kind of pissed off resignation making the same declaration there’s something about the wording. Although in truth shouting “It’s a fake” sounds more like my favorite aunt (and Pat’s sister).

The family email that was circulated, which my new confidant shared, has the same kind of irreverent affection I can totally get behind. I shared with her the eulogizing of Pat and her “balls like an elephant.”

In a great parallel, her mom tried to convince the mechanic to remove the airbag entirely after a fender bender set it off in her car. When he refused, she ultimately just said, “To hell with it,” and stopped driving entirely. For Pat, it was her stated conviction that her car wasn’t running right at all, despite mechanics unable to fix the problems. Better not to risk it and just stop driving.

I’ve been lazy and regretful and rueful and all sorts of shit piling on myself inside my brain about writing. I can’t even begin to sort out the blackness and inadequacy. Seriously, I suck.

But, here’s my little sun-dappled, rainbow, puppy, unicorn, smiley faced nugget of hope. Everywhere I go, I find folks who can laugh and do laugh at their own mothers, death, all of the squirming of earthbound existence. There’s a weird bond to those who have been there and chuckled.

Ironically, this connection all came up, because someone else in our mutual acquaintance can’t laugh worth shit at herself. I cry a thousand blessings on Pat and my memories for CONSTANTLY taking enough of the piss (as the Brits say), mocking and deflating just enough to realize life is short and pomposity is fucking lame. How do people who can’t laugh at themselves and each other get the fuck through the misery of human existence?

In the end, we all sleep, piss, shit, fuck and die. Cheers to the folks who do it with style, elan and humor.

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