The One In Which My Blatant Stupidity Kicks Grief's Ass

Author's note:  This blog contains embarrassing amounts of idiocy, mostly (okay, entirely) on my part.  Please don't judge me for the really dumb things I say.  I swear I'm much smarter in my head.

My father passed away after a long illness early last Sunday morning.  My mother was his main caretaker during that time, and losing him has hit her hard.  

My entire family is in California, with the exception of me, as my husband dragged me by the hair across the country 8 months ago and deposited me in a remote "village" in upstate New York.  (Yes, I'm still bitter.  In case you were wondering.  Also?  I still can't figure out the whole village/township thing, because I think it's stupid.)  I'm not able to make it back for the funeral, which leaves me as the person that my mother calls to cry to, since she feels the need to keep a brave face on for everyone else.

Since I can't do much else for her here, I'm glad I'm able to be her shoulder to cry on.  

My mother called me the other morning and I could tell she had been crying and was having an extremely difficult day.  She told me about the plans she'd made for the funeral and broke down, sobbing uncontrollably for several minutes.  Struggling for something to say that would somehow ease her grief, I blurted out, "It's snowing outside right now... It's so beautiful."

(Okay... this is the part where I am going to wax poetic.  I have no idea why I did this, but it just came out.  I'm pretty sure that it's largely due to the fact that I read Anne of Green Gables as a child about 600 times too many.  Normally I'm not this flowery, but what can I say... my mother eats this shit up.)

Me:  *channeling Longfellow*  "The flakes are so big and puffy... they look like baby marshmallows falling from the sky."

Mom:  *sniffle*  "Really?  It sounds so pretty."

Me:  *getting into it*  "It's like the world is covered with fluffy frosting.  The bows of the trees are bending to the earth, like a young woman in a white wedding dress.  You would love it.  It's like a Normal Rockwell painting.  The only marks in the snow are tracks made by the crows."

Mom:  *perking up*  "Birds are out while it's snowing?"

Me:  "Are you  kidding?  There are so many birds out there it looks like a scene from The Birds."

(I may or may not have lost my poetic flow right about here.)

Mom:  "A scene from what?"

Me:  "The Birds.  You know, Ethan Allen Poe.  The movie about all the birds?  I think Jamie Lee Curtis's mom was in it.  Oh wait... that was Psycho.  I don't know who was in it, but it was a really popular film."

Mom:

Me:  "That movie where the birds went all psycho and killed people?  I think it was in the 50s?"

Mom:  "Ethan Allen Poe?"

Me:  "Or whoever.  I think it was him.  Wasn't it?"

Mom:  

Me:

Mom: *sounding slightly incredulous*  "Do you mean Edgar Allen Poe?"

Me:  "Yeah.  Edgar Allen Poe.  I don't know why I said Ethan Allen.  I must have furniture on the brain."

Mom:

Me:  "Wait... he wrote The Raven."

Mom:

Me:  "I meant Hitchcock."

Mom:

Me:  *continuing merrily down the garden path*  "Hitchcock, Poe, same difference."

Mom:

Me:  "Edgar Allen, Ethan Allen, Alfred Hitchcock... it's like their parents all got together and held a "Name That Psycho" party."

Mom:  "Danielle.  Are you listening to yourself?"

Me:  "No."

Mom:  "I'm appalled."

Me:  "Me too.  Sorry.  But I got confused by the whole crow/raven thing.  And the Edgar Allen, Ethan Allen thing."

Mom:  "How on earth can someone confuse Poe with Ethan Allen?  You know better than that.  You should be ashamed of yourself."

Me:  "I am."

Mom:  "I have too much to do today to worry about you suddenly becoming stupid, so I'm going to let you go."

Me:  "Okay."

Mom:  "I love you.  Bye."

Me:  "Bye."

Me:  *hanging up phone*

Me:  *suddenly realizing she hadn't cried or sounded upset throughout my entire diatribe about horror films, horror writers, and furniture makers*

That's right, bitches... I think I found my special purpose.

Let's review:

Ethan Allen

Edgar Allen

Alfred Hitchcock

Alfred E Newman 
(I'm giving myself mad props for not getting HIM confused
with Poe or Hitchcock.  I'm not ENTIRELY stupid.)