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.