It’s hard to believe it’s been a whole year. At the risk of sounding like an asshole, I’ve always been less sad about his death than mom’s. His life felt done. It’s like finishing a great book that ends as it should. I’m sad that it’s over, but it was time for it to be over all the same.

Saul brought Mom and Dad a bottle of wine, and I let them have a little — in part because Dad loved to booze it and in part to celebrate with them. I wanted to let them know they were going to be grandparents again. Devon and I found out the previous week. I know they would have been excited, especially mom. My brother has two kids, but people who took in 350 foster kids would have gladly welcomed more. When Mom was in ICU, two months before she died, Devon and I told her we were getting married and that if we had a kid and it was a girl, we would name her Aurelia, after my mother’s mother. She cried.

So I poured some of the wine into the dirt and told Mom to go easy, because she’s a lightweight. I sat by the grave for a bit and talked to them about the future. Then I went home.

Two days later I miscarried. It wasn’t very painful and there’s wasn’t a lot of blood, and I’m fine.

Devon took Friday off and we spent a long weekend cooking and watching movies and playing video games. I drank the wine I couldn’t drink at the grave site. We lit the candle over Fitz’s tiny urn and enjoyed the amazing lamb and ratatouille Devon made, along with my cream of mushroom soup and vanilla-chocolate pudding.

A lot can happen in the first three months. We were aware I was pregnant for only 10 days. The embryo would have been the size of a lentil bean. But it was a wild 10 days. We’re not devastated, certainly not like we would be if one of you died. Sad and subdued is more like it. But we’re OK.

Backstory: I was about 5 when my grandfather, my mother’s stepfather, shuffled loose the mortal coil. As my mother and I were going through his house, I wanted something to remember him by, so I chose something I was certain no one else would want: a 1-foot-tall Tacky Plastic Jesus.

I don’t use caps for shits and giggles, y’all. Tacky Plastic Jesus has taken on a proper-noun role in my life.

I’m not Catholic anymore. I’m not even sure I believe in God. Yet I can’t get rid of him, because a sliver of my primitive lizard brain is certain God will smite me if I throw Tacky Plastic Jesus in the trash.

I’m screwed. I don’t want him. Devon doesn’t want him. I haven’t actually asked, but a wife knows these things, as does anyone who has ever met him. I can’t ask him or any of you to do the deed for me, because God might smite you instead, and then I’d have your blood on my hands, and your souls could burn in eternal damnation fires.

I’m taking suggestions. Best suggestion gets my everlasting gratitude — or Tacky Plastic Jesus, if that’s how you roll.

Sheldon lived across the street from my house while I was growing up. He was an older Dad, like mine. David and I would do the goofy crap kids do, like whoop and holler over video games, and he would look on, bemused, then turn back to the quiet predictability of his book or newspaper. He was also my dentist. He would shove dental equipment into my mouth, then ask me questions that required complete sentences to answer, like, “How do you feel about the philosophical differences between capitalism and socialism?” And I’d answer something like, “Garble garble rawr rawr rohk,” because that’s what political discourse sounds like when you have a mouth full of crap and are high on nitrous.

Also, he was pretty awesome — the kind of quiet awesome that sometimes gets lost in the din of more flamboyant personalities but is sorely missed when it’s gone.

P.S.  As far as I remember, he never asked me about socialism. But I was high as a kite, so I wouldn’t remember. For all I know, he was asking me which Smurf I would doink in the back of a pickup truck if I had the chance.

P.S.S.: Papa Smurf. No question.

Not looking so hot

Devon and I used to blame our plant-killing tendencies on not having enough free time. However, I don’t have a job or kids or even a super-engrossing hobby, so I will never have more free time than I do right now. Every day I think, “I should water that plant.” Then I go do something else, like think about hugging cats.

My confession: I don’t give a crap about plants. There, I said it.

I feel like I should, and so does Devon. We think plants are attractive and admire our friends’ gardens. Plants can add a lot to a home’s decor. But I never seem to care enough to actually water the little fuckers before they keel over.

Devon is still in denial. He says plants are important and he wants them, but the plant currently on death watch has been dying a slow, horrible death right over his side of the bed for over a week and he just noticed last night, so I don’t believe him.

On the bright side, the cactus is doing really well.

Dad, left, Uncle Tommy, right

Uncle Tommy, one of my father’s younger brothers, died Saturday, and the funeral was today. The funeral mass was supposed to be at 10 am. The hearse finally pulled up at 10:30, giving us just enough time to squeeze in a mass before the next mass. I just like typing that word. Mass mass mass mass.

As we waited for my uncle’s body to arrive, an old man, probably my uncle’s friend, leaned over to another old man and said, “I always told you Tommy would be late for his own funeral.”

And he was. Awesome.

Cheers, Uncle Tommy. You picked the one party that couldn’t start without you and rocked it.

By Lisa Pembleton / Getty Images / links to TODAY

This reminded me of Dad. The one and only time he ever voted Democrat was for Kerry. He got tired of seeing pictures of dead soldiers in the newspaper. Possibly they reminded him of his friends and neighbors, or his own potential fate. He never explained that much, though. He just left tear stains on newspapers.

Today marks two years Mom is gone, and yesterday my friend Saul and I went to the grave site for our second annual trip. It was also the first time I’d been to the grave since we buried Dad in January. We sipped wine under a tree near the stone while we made up elaborate and possibly insane stories about the lives and deaths of the people around them. Poor Anna really shouldn’t have been playing with that wood chipper.

I cranked up the iPod and set it on the grave so Dad could listen to some Sinatra. I hope mom shut up long enough for him to listen. When I picked up the iPod again, “My Way” was playing. It was the song Dad would sing at the top of his lungs at parties, the last song on the playlist, and the one that makes me cry if I’ve had a couple of glasses of wine.

In front of the stone, right over the grave, five tiny sunflower plants grew up from the dirt: three facing down toward the dirt and two looking up at the sun. When I was 8, I planted a sunflower plant in the front yard that became a towering monstrosity. It was awesome — the one and only plant that has thrived under my care. When I played outside, I would stop and eat some seeds. Mom tore it out because it was close to the car and looked like someone lurking in the dark.

It’s easy to see why people attach spiritual meaning to mundane things, but I like to think the sunflowers were for me. Apology accepted, Mom.

Then we celebrated Devon’s birthday at Toby’s Public House. He was 36 yesterday. Give him a hard time if you see him.

You see, every time a person or critter I love dies, I write a nice blog entry, saying lots of nice things, like what an awesome mother/father/grandparent/dog he or she was. You might have gotten the impression that it’s OK to die, since I will say nice things about you.

Uh-uh. No way. Forget that crap.

I will trash talk you to all your friends. I will say shit about you on Facebook. I will tell your mom where you hid your porn stash.

I know what you’re thinking: “I don’t have a porn stash.” I’m also gonna tell your mom what a goddamn filthy liar you are. If you truly do not have a porn stash, I will put one in your bathroom, right next to a box of tissues and some hand cream. If you do not have a mom, through illness, accident or asexual reproduction, I will create CafePress t-shirts with your naked baby pictures and sell them until the police confiscate my computer.

I hope I’m making myself clear: Don’t die. The consequences won’t be good for you.

Mom holding Fitz

Forgive the potential incoherence of this post. Devon and I are sitting here drinking whiskey and talking about Fitz.

Fitz was not a smart dog. Nor was she a strong dog. But she was all heart and made of 100% awesome. If you wanted a dog to snuggle your side, Fitz was your dog.

Catching the death is not cool, Fitz. Not cool at all. We’ve ordered the cats not to die, and Devon has asked me not to die, and I said OK. I mean, anything to make him happy, right? Devon won’t make such promises because he’s a jerk.

Fitz was 12 years old — three years shy of the average lifespan for min-pins, so we lost her too young. We’re still waiting for the dog autopsy to come back, since it happened so fast the vets were never able to figure out what was wrong with her.

I like to think we gave Fitz a good life. Devon rescued her from the road, where she was tossed out of a moving car, and gave her lots of love and food and even tried to take the fall when she peed the bed. I took her to get her nails trimmed and made sure she was stylin’ in her badass dog hoodies.

Here’s to you, Fitz. You were awesome and I love you.

Dear Pinchy the Cactus:

You are my last best hope at a “garden.” I am sorry you are stuck in my care, but life’s like that sometimes. I have killed every other plant I have attempted to grow in this apartment, which does not bode well for you, but I believe in you.

You are strong. You are brave. You were $4 at the hardware store.

Love,
The Plant Murderer Who is Probably Going to Overwater You