Doing all these “first” holidays without mom is less fun than my photo posts make it look.
What my three readers see on the socials:
Goofy selfies, and lots of them.
Cool places.
Good foods.
Fun things I forced myself to experience.
Last trip in September for Mom’s birthday, I did a mix of “our” things and new things.
This time, it was all me. Even though Delmonico’s was open early for Easter, I decided to go to the parks. Because we didn’t and then we couldn’t.
And now I can. Just like I’ve updated all my Sirius XM presets.
I love her Coffeehouse and Kenny Chesney but Miss Gen X here needs her Lithium and ’90s on 9 and Ozzy’s Boneyard.
Not that I leave the house much to enjoy any of it.
I think that was the main driver behind me upgrading my Disney pass. My friend who inspired me to get the pass will literally get her ass on a plane to go to Disney.
Why can’t I take a road trip once a month for one night to escape my own mental Eight of Swords moments?
I don’t get many “likes” but I don’t care.
Momma always said do you notice how nobody likes your posts when you’re traveling or doing something they can’t do.
A-yup.
I am always good for liking and commenting on people’s posts when they put up a selfie or a trip photo.
My family always taught me to be happy for others. Begruding them won’t make it come to you, they’d say.
Plus, the bravery of putting up a selfie is nothing to sniff at. For others, I presume.
I love seeing me happy-ish, even if I have a bonus chin or a dopey expression.
I mean, I’m fuckin sad sometimes. If my eyes are puffy, taking extra pics isn’t usually going to yield a better one.
Gotta celebrate the moment while I’m still in it.
I always celebrate a great outfit.
Also, as for celebrating others, I can wish I were in the Maldives while also liking your photos from them.
You know, the booming metropolis of the Maldives that Cheetolini is picking a tariff fight with because they export sooo much here (not).
Where was I? Oh, how glad I am that I post what I do.
After all, the Memories features slap me in the fucking face every day to remind me of what Momma and I were doing two, five, six, 10, 18 years ago, I’m glad I did.
And now, as random memories come to me, I want to capture those too.
Like how she loved cherries and whipped cream. I told her I didn’t like either so she wouldn’t give them to me even though they were the best part for her.
Interestingly, those get more likes than the happy photos. Misery loves company, apparently.
Got some nice feedback from my trip to the Hollywood Brown Derby for Easter lunch.
This after seeing so many signs from my family over the weekend that I didn’t share.
I was eating an amazing piece of cake from Cake Bake — Neapolitan, which the servers said they were so jealous of me getting to eat because it’s their favorite — outside when I thought, damn, I wish Mom had gotten to try this.
A baby robin bopped by me and dived into the topiary next to me after I thought it.
I was still on Disney’s Board Walk when I saw someone wearing a Cocoa Beach shirt. MY BABY!!!!
I decided to look to the sky. To my joyful surprise, I saw skywriting just starting.
That’s always how we remembered my Gram.
After she had her stroke, she lost her ability to hold a pen. Which was terrible because she was a beautiful calligrapher.
So she wrote in the sky.
Anytime we would see skywriting, we’d say, “Rosie Girl!”
I looked at my watch. 6:19. Grampy’s favorite number.
Don’t tell me I didn’t have my whole family with me on the Board Walk.
My Easter miracle.
When I go out to eat, I always click two forks together and say “click click!” like Momma did to toast us.
(I do it at home too, if I bother using silverware. I remember when the Kathy Bates of Greenacres, speaking of “Misery,” used to slam me for taking food pics on Dixie plates. Bitch, I had a mom with stage 4 cancer and I have no daughter to run the household and be the party hostess while you languish. I would have paper pots and pans if I could. I throw away silverware — yes actual silver — so I don’t have one more damned thing to clean.)
And I always raise my glass and say “Cheers to my Momma.”
Today I did a click click with a blood orange margarita to the pomegranate one in my flight.
I felt like she was saying “Cheers to my baby” back.
She would have loved these, even though they used Cuervo. The blood orange margarita was amazeballs.
Jimmy always used to say “No Jose!”
Speaking of Jimmy, I drove by his house on the way home from Orlando.
He had a houseful. I texted a pic of that shit-brown abode with the five cars to mom’s bestie/frenemy. Who wants so badly for me to drive him to his door.
Which, I will someday. I promise.
I also almost slammed into one of those cars. They had to have heard me lose some tire rubber from that hard brake. Instant karma for being evil.
I texted the friend (which, I’ve concluded she may not have been a great friend to mom, but she is good to me. So that is something to cherish) that he doesn’t even need an Easter ham. Jimmy is the whole damn pig.
Anyway it was interesting to have Momma in the car (in her travel urn, in the cupholder and a Baby’s Coffee cardboard sleeve to keep her in place) while I looked at that shitbox. The house, not the owner, to be clear.
I almost wished he’d come out. I am 100% sure he contributed to her poor health.
But that’s a post for never, because he isn’t worth celebrating or even remembering. Unlike her.