Friday, August 31, 2007

Give her a break

Camilla, Duchess of Corwall, bowed out of the service marking the 10th anniversary of the death of Diana, Princess of Wales.

I loved Diana. She was like a kindred spirit. I mourned her death and subjected my family to way too much CNN in the subsequent week. I taped her funeral. Weeks later, The Girl's father did one of the most touching things of our relationship when he braved the crowds to pick up a copy of Elton John's "Candle in the Wind 1997," reworked to bid farewell to England's Rose.

In the 10 years since, Diana's boys have become adults, her ex (Prince Charles to the rest of us) married his longtime mistress, and her sons have done what numerous other youngsters across the globe do every day -- accept their father's choice for a mate, and make her part of the family.

That included inviting her to their mother's memorial service.

I know the sordid story of Diana vs. "The Rottweiler." (Tampon, anyone?) And the truth of the matter is, it's history.

Diana's dalliances seem to have been forgiven. Indications are that Diana herself forgave her former husband before her death. And truthfully, had stodgy royal convention allowed Charles to act on his feelings decades ago, he most likely would have married Camilla then and been living happily. As would Diana, in a life of probable obscurity.

But the future king of England sacrificed happiness for country and a young girl was given her fairy tale wedding. But instead of living happily ever after, the Princess was cast into a loveless marriage, suffered scandalous headlines worldwide when both were accused of and later confirmed infidelities and other problems that led to their divorce, and died in a speeding car driven by a drunken driver in a Paris tunnel.

So much for happily ever after.

Diana's sons have hit bumps along the way, but I think she'd be proud of the way they have grown up. They have memorialized their mother this summer and planned her service today, inviting their stepmother to spend that special time with them.

If Diana's boys can be gracious and accepting -- and yes, most likely love -- Camilla, why can't the rest of the world forgive her transgressions? It was, after all, at their invitation that she planned to attend the service.

Aren't their feelings the ones that should matter? Especially on the day that they mourn their mother's tragic passing?

If they wanted Camilla at their side while they honored their mother (and they obviously did), the British media and Diana's friends should shut the hell up and let them have it. It's their service, after all, for their mother. Apparently, Prince William and Prince Harry are mature beyond the tabloids and Rosa Monckton.

For that, I think, Diana would be proud.

Friday, August 17, 2007

The Worst Day of the Year

Yep. It's today.

I almost ran out of gas on the way to work. I love my car, but like everything else in my life, it's got its quirks. Its most major one is that my gas tank can be virtually empty and the needle on the gas gauge points to a quarter of a tank.

Or more, as it was doing this morning. But when it gets low, the car starts sputtering. People on I-40 don't like it when sputtering cars are sharing their road. One trucker particularly didn't like it. He can kiss my ass.

After making a stop I wasn't necessarily planning to make and driving about a mile out of my way to get 3 gallons of gas, the car was happy. But I was late for work. Not good.

We were two people short in our department today. One of them was the supervisor. Guess who's the supervisor when the supervisor's not around?

Everyone in this county who ever thought the newspaper might be interested in their story showed up at my doorstep today. Most days, that's OK. Today it wasn't.

I had two jobs to perform today -- mine and the supervisor's. My end wasn't looking so good. Then the proverbial shit hit the fan. Major story. Must get in the paper ASAP. Must have already-stretched-thin staff on the story. Now.

After a few hours in the scorching heat, the already-stretched-thin staff straggles back in from newsgathering to put their work together. That's when my Very Loud Co-worker decided to pump it into high gear. Only this time she was joined by her dickhead friend.

Blahblahblahblahblahblah ... And so it went. Louder. And Louder. AND LOUDER. The already-stretched-thin staff was having trouble concentrating over their chatter. I was having trouble concentrating. So, I did what any quasi-supervisor would do. I got up, went to their Corner 'o Chat, explained what was going on, and asked them to keep it down.

Very Loud Co-worker was sincerely apologetic. I thought it was classy of her.

Dickhead said, in his most sarcastic voice, "Oh, we're sorry."

He can kiss my ass, too. No, wait. I don't want him anywhere near my ass. He can go fuck himself. With a white-hot fork. The size of a pitchfork. Sideways. Up his ugly anus. (Can you tell I really don't like this guy?)

Today was shitty all on its own, but it was destined to be that way.

Had she lived, today would have been my mother's 64th birthday.

Her birthday is always hard for me. It's when I miss her most.

So many things were left unresolved between us. There's no way, barring recovery from the mental illness that eventually led her to take her life, that things could have been resolved.

In the last few years of her life, our roles had changed. I was the mother, reminding her to take her medicine and keep her psychiatric appointments. She was the meek child with good intentions she rarely carried out.

I have yet to grieve for her properly. I have yet to shed a tear. I planned the funeral. Picked out the coffin and her attire. Chose the spray of flowers adorning her casket. Arranged for the pallbearers because her lazy-assed nephews couldn't be bothered with it. Made sure Daddy had his Xanex so he could get through the service. Held my daughter as she weeped for the grandmother who would never see her graduate from high school or attend her wedding. Drove all over East Tennessee shopping for funeral attire for both of us.

It's seldom slowed down since. I miss my mother on the anniversary of her death and major holidays, and I travel 60 miles from here each Memorial Day to place flowers on her grave. But it's her birthday -- the anniversary of the day she drew her first breath -- that I mourn her.

Happy birthday, Mommy. I love you.