Life Goes On

OK...now that everyone's forgotten about me, here's a new post!

So my mom died last November. Don't worry, I'm not turning this blog into a pity party. Am I dealing with a lot of "stuff" since she passed away? Sure! But this isn't the place for it.

So why did I even bring it up?

No one was really prepared for my mom's death. She got really sick in late July, and it just went downhill from there. By the time we realized how it was going to end, there was about a month left in her, and partly due to the cancer, partly due to the medications, she wasn't really in her own mind. And we were all kind of in shock, disbelief and even a little denial. So nothing really happened in terms of getting her finances/estate in order. Plus I had just had a baby, and my brother had just had his first baby (well, really his wife did), so neither of us really had any time to think about stuff like that.

So most of the winter was spent preparing to put her house on the market. Because of our schedules, I wasn't able to devote as much time to this as my brother was. I basically made the hour-long trip to visit her every day of my maternity leave (she died the day before I was scheduled to return to work), so after her death, I had to tend to the family, work and life I had put on hold for her. But the other day I was finally able to make a trip to her house, without the kids or husband, to take care of some final things before the house officially went on the market.

I lived in that house from 1990-1997, but still considered it my home until I moved in with TB in 2000. And even then, I felt totally comfortable showing up at any time of the day or night, letting myself in, and making myself at home there. I'd help myself to whatever food was around, lounge on the couch, do laundry, take paper towels and toilet paper...whatever.

But now, as I let myself in through the garage by inputting the codes on the alarm, as I'd been doing for years, things were different.

My brother did a lot of work to the house. Rooms were repainted. The kitchen was completely redecorated. Cabinets were a different color and the counter was replaced with a new darker top. Half the furniture was gone, and the millions of plants that my mom had decorating every room had vanished. Photos were no longer on walls or refrigerator doors. All the things that made this place my home were no longer there.

I wasn't comfortable anymore. In fact, I was downright scared.

I was terrified that since no one lived there anymore, homeless people had invaded the house and were living in the basement.

Every sound I heard made me jump. I came very close to just turning around and leaving.

But I knew it would be a long time before I was able to return without the kids, and I couldn't get any work done with them there. So I had to stay. But I also had to make sure there were no vagrants in the basement.

I was in the bathroom off my mom's bedroom by this point. I looked around for a weapon and found this:

Because I was such a scaredy cat, I was texting back and forth with my husband and a few friends. I sent them this pic and one pointed out that the screwdriver would really go a long way should one of these homeless people have a gun. That didn't make me feel any better.

But just the fact that I now had something I could stick in their eye, should I get close enough to them, made me feel a little better. Good enough to venture downstairs to the kitchen, dining room and living room area to make sure no one was hanging out on the main floor.

You know, in case I didn't notice them on my way in.

So I made the rounds, holding my weapon out in front of me, ready to attack. I was walking around the living room when I spotted something that reminded me of my mother's fondness for sharp things, and realized that there's a weapon in every room:

There were several things that my mom "collected", and scissors were one of them. There were piles like this one in every room. Knowing this, and arming myself with two of them, I found myself brave enough to venture into the basement. Once I confirmed that I was alone in the house (except for the mice- my brother named the "big black one Stinky...because he smells...bad"), I was able to get to work.

But not until I was reunited with an old friend. Remember this creepy braid of hair from my first major hair cut just prior to 7th grade? That my daughter found and threw at me repeatedly while I squealed in disgust and my mother doubled over with laughter? 

Yeah. I found it.

Only because of my mom's disturbing attachment to it, I didn't have the heart to throw it away. So I stuck it in a jelly bean jar full of hanging file folder tabs, and it now sits on the cabinet next to my desk at home. 

Ugh. Moving on...

I did get some work done, and in the mean time, discovered this. I always knew my mom had this (I'm not sure why or how) and never had any interest in it whatsoever. But since she died, stupid little things that usually would mean nothing to me suddenly mean a lot to me and I want to keep them.

So now I have a gun.

Sure, it's just a pellet gun, or a BB gun. But it makes me feel all gangsta just the same.

Even though it's in storage now.

I'm still a thug.

Recognize.


And I carried it around the house for the remainder of the afternoon. Because it made me feel good.

Finally, I got hungry. If you know me, you know that was bound to happen, sooner rather than later. The cool thing about my mom's place was that there was always food there. But since this was no longer my mom's place, my options were limited to what was left in the freezer.

The only thing that was edible was an unopened container of Cool Whip.

Good enough for me!

But there were no spoons, forks or even knives to eat it with. So I did what any normal human being would do. I took the lid off and started licking. But since it was frozen, or maybe I just hadn't worked my tongue out in a while and it was weak (is it just me or did that sound dirty?), I wasn't getting very far.

So I squished the sides in to force the frozen cream out and stuck my face in and started taking bites. This is what that looked like:

That helped somewhat, but I still wasn't able to get all of the cool whip into my mouth. Bummer.

 As I described to a friend via text, I ended up throwing the whole container away because "It's useless to me now since I can't get my face in any deeper. Can't use my hand cuz it's holding my gun."

Any other day, that might sound weird...