Some months ago, maybe around Thanksgiving or Christmas, I got a small package in the mail from Dad’s sister up in Michigan, and in it were photos they’d found of him. They were the usual you’d expect—elementary class shots, shots of him with his bike, his first car, even a couple sitting half-asleep in a ... well, it wouldn’t have been a car seat in 1934, but some sort of seater thing when he couldn’t have been more than a couple months old. Anyway, I’m looking at them and chuckling at his big ol’ jug ears and teenaged dorkiness when I shuffled to the above picture.

Now, those of you who’ve been in The Resort have seen the one photo I have of Dad on the bookcase: He had to have been about 1 when it was taken, and it’s one of those old-timey, hand-painted things they did in the early 1930s, where they painstakingly added some unholy shade of peach to make the sepia tones more natural. His hair brushed neatly to one side and way-serious expression, I don’t want to say there’s an inherent sadness to it because no one smiled in pictures back in the ‘30s. Really, he just kind of looks like a little old man-boy in a ruffly apricot gown.

So when I came to this shot—him slumped over with unbridled, toothless baby joy—I promptly lost it.

Eight years ago today was Dad’s wake. It was also the day where it was made abundantly clear by Mother to me that SHE was the only person who lost him. Yeah, he raised me and taught me to read at age 2, but he was her HUSBAND, you see. Because of that (as well as various other sundry reasons having to do with my well-documented aversion to feeling feelings), I don’t often talk about him, or at least not without people prompting the conversation. There’ve been quite a few people who’ve brought him up to me this summer, though, interestingly enough. Something else kind of interesting, at least to me, is that my aunt sent the pictures to me with not a word about sharing them with Mother. I struggled with that for a few days, too, over whether I should.

I haven’t.

Has anyone invented butt warmers for the toilet (that don’t involve yarn, naturally)? Because it ain’t right that I should be freezing my ass off INSIDE MY CRIB. Good Christ. Glad my outdoor assignment was canceled today (for lack of snow instead of appendage-freezing-off weather, of all things); now, I can throw myself into such intellectual pursuits as laundry and oven-cleaning, and maybe some Crap TV at Girlie’s later if I can be persuaded to go outside.

Everything seems to be back in order after hell week—Mother’s settled in, and after sleeping most the day Friday, I don’t feel quite as beaten down anymore. Chatting with my pal Laura was also somewhat helpful: She lost her mom a little more than a year, I think, before Dad died, and her dad, God love him, isn’t much further along than Mother in the grieving process (though he IS much more responsible for his own health and can take care of his own doctors’ appointments). So anyway, Laura has three sisters and a brother, and her dad has started mentally noting what they call “grieving points,” wherein her dad reports to each of them who’s paid the most attention to their mom’s tomb for the week (i.e.: “Your sister left the most beautiful arrangement and stayed x amount of time"). The object, apparently, is that all the siblings are then supposed to top the others’ efforts. Fortunately, all five them have sick senses of humor, so they’re well aware of what their dad is doing and can laugh heartily about it. That right there is what I wish I had the most; I mean, I can tell people how ridiculous some of the shit is that goes on with Mother and me, but it feels like all I’m doing is being an ungrateful cunt, and that includes to those who either have met her or have known her as long as they’ve known me. With siblings—or even Dad himself—at least there’s someone who knows exACTly how it is, and you don’t feel like you have to defend yourself when you’re frustrated. And you know, I had no intention of turning this into another “Woe is me” diatribe, so pardon me while I go suck it up ...

There. That’s better.

So Friday night I covered my alma mater’s MLK Jr. celebration, which featured King’s youngest daughter, Bernice. And once again, it was an assignment that there was no way in hell it could be given the treatment it deserved in 8 to 10, which is what I’m typically writing these days. The reporter chick from the competition and I just looked at each other like, “Fuck. Where do you even start?” Just amazing, and timely to something my sister and I have been talking about the past few weeks, but I’ll talk about that later since I think it’s been two hours since I sprayed the crap out of the oven and therefore should probably clean it before I stick my cauliflower thingy in to cook.

Or I need a good screwing, because between almost blowing off an assignment that didn’t end up being mine after all, hearing Mother complain that I was late picking her up because she’d been stuck in the house for more than 24 hours (it’s my responsibility to keep her entertained, you see) and getting the suspicion that my NYE plans are shot to hell, I’m in a fairly rotten mood these last couple days. I mean, like chewing metal nails rotten. Not even Tara’s Spawn Shower could wipe away the ick entirely, and it was pretty damn cute. (I told y’all Tara’s knocked up, right? Due in March. And Pop DID evenutally burst: A baby girl, 15 days late (yes, you may collectively groan). For our purposes, we shall call her Squeelie, and she’s perfect in every way. She farts flowers even, forealz.) Being broke until Friday doesn’t exactly help, either, and my gas door was frozen shut, so hope it warms up tomorrow or I don’t have to go anywhere for work, because I have no gas.

Also been dreaming about Dad a lot in the last few days, and it’s revolved around money. Wonder what the underlying issue is and why he’s coming to visit.

Poppy and her hub are on vay-kay in Cancun, so I've been babysitting her menagerie, including the ferrets, Stushdon and Shnockies (I think, or that might be the other ferret she had). And I gotta tell you, if they didn't reek to high heaven, ferrets are a pretty good time. I let them run around in their room, and they chirped and wiggled and tussled and tried to get in the leg of my yoga pants. Good times on a Friday night.

Their one dog, on the other hand, hasn't been as easy. He's an old guy with bad hips, and once you let him out, it's a crapshoot whether you'll be able to get him back up the stairs. Last night was one of those nights, and after about 45 minutes, I decided I'd leave him on the stoop between the upstair and downstairs, thinking he'd be so exhausted he'd just hang out there for the night. He didn't, of course, so Hub's mom called me in a panic this morning because she in all her 100-pound soaking wet glory couldn't get him upstairs to go outside. We eventually got him up and out, but I left him in the house tonight when I went over there. If Hub's mom doesn't hate me for this morning, I'm sure she will if she walks in to a house full of dog crap.

But you know what I noticed last night? Even though I yelled at the poor bastard once thinking that might startle him into moving, my patience never waivered into DefCon territory. I'd kinda like to attribute that to Dad, because as we all know, Dad had to be a patient man lest he ended up burying Mother in the backyard, and we also know that I tend to have a rotten temper when I want to. Maybe it's something he left me when he went. Or maybe it's the drugs.

Today was one of those days that went from 0-60 in, like, 10 minutes, which sounds like it would be oh-so-slow but really wasn't, because in my biz, that usually signifies that the shit has hit the fan and plans have changed. But then when they did -- in this case, I got a third story -- it all stopped and dragged ass. So basically, I spent the whole day discombobulated, and tomorrow's not going to be much better.

So after all this discombobulation, Mother calls to tell me about the wake she went to yesterday for this former neighbor of hers who used to take care of my grandpa when he got ill. Not surprisingly, she was on warp speed -- what can I say, funerals excite her -- but this time, it wasn't necessarily because of the funeral itself; seems that Mother got a taste of her own medicine at the hands of one of my aunts. Lemme break it all down: The aunt, the wife of Mother's oldest brother, was talking to this priest who used to reside at the church to which this woman belonged. Mother walked up to join them, and I guess said aunt decided to introduce Mother as "the sister-in-law who doesn't go to church." Now, if you've garnered anything from my rants about Mother, you know that that was the absolute LOWEST insult that could've been thrown at her outside of claiming she wasn't a virgin on her wedding night. (She was. BeLIEVE me, she was.) "I belonged to St. Tom's for 32 years and I want to register at St. Mary's but it's not like I can just get there just like thatya-da-ta-ya-da-ta-ya-da-ta ... " she rattled on the phone. But did she say that to her sister-in-law? Of course not. She hung her head in shame, and the priest put his hand on her shoulder to console her in her minute of crippling embarassment. Sure it was incredibly rude; this particular aunt caught the ass-end of my ire right before Dad's funeral, in fact, for saying something about how Mother needed to get his class ring and any other valuables Dad might've had on him so the funeral people won't steal them -- you know, because a) the funeral people would have use for Dad's college ring and b) Mother and I are complete idiots who wouldn't have thought to do that*. Doesn't mean I can't enjoy it when Mother gets to try on MY shoes when it happens. Anyway, to her credit, apparently she snapped out of it and gave a eulogy of sorts for the woman.

Meanwhile, I'm back to feeling all philosophical and weirded out by the TOG exchange, especially after watching Nip/Tuck last night. I mean, for as much shit as I allow him to get away with, I can't EVER fathom being turned on by such degradation. Guess I got THAT going for me.**