Fuck it, can we just go to your house? I'm sure it's cleaner there. And even if it's not, I don't care, because at least my kids don't live there!
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I'm Teri Biebel, and I was born in Philly, and raised in Jersey. I'm 45 years old, and after working 24 years in the casino industry, I wanted nothing more to do with slot machines, table games, and stealing people blind, so I left for the private sector. I'm married to Don and have two amazing (and trying) teens, 15 and 13. I spend most of my time living like a circus clown, juggling schedules and chauffeuring large groups of people in a five-passenger car. I am sarcastic, I am snarky and my oldest has coined the term 'Snarkastic' to describe me. People tell me that I'm funny and as long they don't follow that up with the word "looking" I'm totally okay with it. You can read more of my writing on my blog, Snarkfest.
Love, Tears, and a Few Scattered Ashes
By Meredith Spidel
The Mom of the Year
Nine months ago, my mother died. This was the saddest, most painful time of my life, but somehow unexpected laughter managed to eke its way into the days and moments following her death. It was such a sweet and surprising blessing to find shards of levity within the despair. As it turns out, a good snort can go very far in navigating through loads of weirdness and hurt.
The awkward funny began literally the second she passed from this world. You see, we thought she was dead, but we weren't quite sure. My husband had taken the kids home because it had been a long day, and my dad, sister, brother-in-law and I were settled in on the living room couch pretending to read and leaf through magazines. What is, exactly, the protocol for sitting bedside with your dying mom who has been unresponsive for hours? All of the sudden, sister elbow-punched my brother-in-law. We all looked at my mother, who appeared not to be breathing any more. Her breathing had become so shallow by this point, we couldn't tell if she actually stopped.
What now? Someone had the idea of putting a pocket mirror under her nose to see if the glass fogged like I used to do in those paranoid days of early motherhood with my babies, but that didn't work well. I called hospice, "Hi, I'm here with MaryAnn and we think she may have died." They said they would send someone out in 45 minutes. Super. Thanks, we'll just sit here for the next three-quarters of an hour with our possibly dead mother.
It then dawned on us that we could check for her pulse (yes, this should have occurred to us first, but apparently capacity to think clearly flees in close proximity of a dead loved one), except no one wanted to do it. Touching a maybe-dead body can be a very freaky thing. My sister finally made my brother-in-law do it, promising to someday return the favor if ever necessary with his parents. Thus, a new family standard was established: in event of questionable death, in-laws will be responsible for all hands-on body-checks.
After determining that she was, in fact, dead, my father, a very practical man, took the opportunity to finish up some laundry he had been working on. Of course, Dad. Might as well make good use of the time. Somehow this didn't seem that completely weird until he brought the laundry back in the living room and started folding it onto piles on every available surface—including my mother's body. Cue open-mouth gaping. It is important to note that our faith does not value the physical body after a person has passed, but still, this seemed a bit extreme. Nothing screams inappropriate like, "Mind grabbing that pile of towels off of Mom's legs? The fresh tee-shirts are over by her arms."
A series of coroners, hospice, and undertakers later, my sister and I then decided to spend the night. I asked my father if he had any extra pillows. He looked around and eying the ones on my mother's hospital bed, handed them to me. Aghast, I shrieked, "My mother just died on those!" Somehow, pillows managed to be conjured up from some more neutral location in the house.
Fast forward through a couple awkward, but nice-to-be-with-family days and a loooong group trip to Kohls to buy my dad, a man who does NOT shop, his first new suit in years and proper funeral dresses for my sister and me (What precisely should one wear to her mother's funeral?), and we found ourselves at the day of the service.
My mother had been cremated, and the plan was to bury her ashes in the ground of a memorial garden at the church. Having never buried ashes before, we weren't sure what exactly to expect. We assumed we would just be placing the entire urn in a hole. We were wrong. Very wrong. After some lovely words of commemoration, the pastor indicated we were to actually transfer the ashes from the urn into the hole in the ground. There was no scoop in sight. This urn was massive. Huge. Dawning realization set in quickly: we were supposed to use our hands to grab the remains of my mother and throw them in the ground?! What surprising great news. So glad I wore heels for the occasion.
My brave father went first and threw in a handful. I went next. Then it was my sister's turn. She threw in a handful and stopped. We had a problem. We had about 15 tons of our dead mother's ashes and we were fresh out of immediate family members. She started to grab several quick handfuls, but it became apparent that we would be there for months on end at this rate. So the dear girl squatted, grabbed up that bad boy of an urn, upturned it and started to shake it out. Being the very helpful older sister that I am, I jumped right in and said, "Here, let me hold your purse." She shot me hateful daggers and continued shaking our mother into the ground. Hey, sometimes it just sucks to be the youngest. At least I had the purses covered.
That March day was one of the windiest ever. As it turns out, white ashes and black dresses don't work so well. After my mother was successfully interred in the ground, we made quick work towards the bathroom. I got there first and was busy paper-toweling the ash off me when my sister entered. I asked, "Coming in to wash mom off you?" We keeled over in hysterical laughter and couldn't stop. There is something tragically perfect about trying to sponge your dead mother's ashes off your dress with crappy church bathroom paper towels right before going into her memorial service. I can't imagine what people must have thought about MaryAnn's crazy daughters laughing like lunatics before the funeral. The proudest moment of the day.
Post-service, we gathered for a "receiving line" and got to chat with some very sweet people who genuinely loved my mother and wanted to support us. As I've learned, though, not everyone is able to express their concern eloquently. There was the man who told us he "earned" at least a couple of sandwiches by sitting through the service. Classy. Let me know your going rate for funeral attendance. I have some upcoming services I'd love to book you for, and I'll need to get the proper number of sandwiches ready.
There was the friend who told me my earrings looked "so slutty." Um, thanks. And since I'm not vulnerable or anything right now, I will handle this comment extremely well without getting upset or paranoid about it all.
And then there was the family who congratulated me on my pregnancy and asked when the baby was due. My daughter was seven months old at this point and another pregnancy was very, very far off our radar. Fantastic. I appreciate the head's up that my body is a disaster. I'll just pop over to the gym after the service with all the extra energy I have right now and get to work on that.
When everyone finally finished pouring out these sweet sentiments and it was time to go home, my sister's friend (who I love dearly) was walking out to the car with us. She then realized she had locked her keys in the car. Of course. Of course, we would then find ourselves sitting around my parents' kitchen table, making cheerful post-service small talk waiting for AAA to call her back within hours after putting my mother in the ground. Because really, what would any mom's funeral be without a need for AAA?
I would trade almost anything to still have my mother here on this earth, but I am grateful for all of these ridiculous laughs that helped carry my family through this time. I like to think of these nearly-peeing-my-pants moments as one of my mom's final gifts to me, and am cherishing all of these memories. It was a horrible time, but it was also a horribly funny time. Here's to you, Mom.
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Meredith blogs at
The Mom of the Year, dedicatedly earning her title one epic parenting fail at a time. When her kids aren't busy pummeling each other with Legos or requiring their 16th sippy cup refill of the day, she tries to offer quick, relatable laughs for fellow parents of the world and all their empathizers. She remains entirely terrified by crafts, promises to never share any useful household tips, and is fully committed to a less serious look at the world of parenting.
Why I Belong in Coach
By Julianna W. Miner
Rants from Mommyland
I'm sitting on a plane in first class for the very first time. All the people walking past me have no idea that I don't fly first class all the time. Continue your sad shuffling to the back of the plane, people. I'll be here sipping champagne and taking my extra leg-room for granted. I settle in, feeling superior and glamorous (and like I didn't just spend most of the afternoon trying to get cat puke out of my dining room rug). I look across the aisle. There is a large man; attractive in a growly, possibly dangerous kind of way. He looks exactly like that famous actor . . . What's his name? Oh my sweet baby condor. It really is him. Holy Shit.
How long has he been sitting there? Did it look like I was picking my nose a minute ago when I scratched it? No. I scratched it. Really. Did he just think he saw me pick my nose? Why am I going to vomit all of a sudden? He glances at me and sees that I am gaping at him, mouth open, eyes big, all traces of dignity and tact long gone. I close my mouth very quickly and unfortunately it makes a noise when it shuts. Good that my mouth is now closed in case I throw up.
He smiles curtly at me, as if to say: please stop looking at me, I acknowledged you, now look away or I will have you escorted back to coach with the rest of the carnie folk. I try to give him a brief smile back, indicating that I totally get it. But somehow, I don't think it looked very nice, because he suddenly seems concerned and alarmed, as if I am about to have a seizure. He quickly looks away.
Shit. Why was I not aware of his presence? I sat there for maybe five minutes and wasn't sucking in my stomach. I saw that movie with him and his abs. I should have had some intuitive female response to his presence, even if I couldn't see him. I mean there would obviously have been a major testosterone spike as soon as he showed up, right? Have I been married that long? Has motherhood deadened my response to such powerful pheromones? Is that possible?
God damn it. What the hell is wrong with me?! Get it together, for Christ's Sake. And stop taking the name of the Lord in vain, you asshole.
Wait a minute. Did I just say that last part out loud? Oh Lord. Oh no. I think I did.
Well, that is just perfect. Before I even have the opportunity to figure out how to deal with sitting four feet from this specimen, I have to make an ass of myself. Of course, if I had tricked him into thinking I was normal, clever or charming, when I eventually outed myself, it would surely have been much worse. Right? I mean I could have chatted with him for a while. Asked him where he was going or casually mentioned that I was a writer (leaving off the part about it only being for the internet). And he might have sort of liked me for a few minutes.
And then I would invariably say some jackass thing, (or perhaps have thrown up on him?) and then the look of horror and revulsion on his face, caused by me, in front of all the deserving first class passengers . . . That would have been much harder to deal with. Now he just thinks I'm odd but not a complete psycho. That's something.
Wait a minute; I know what I'll do. I will start reading stuff for work. I will be interpreted as being a very serious and intelligent professional woman. I'll highlight stuff and write comments in the margins and make very quiet tsk tsk noises. Let's see how that goes . . .
It's very hard to concentrate on this stupid stuff. Was I ever able to read? Because I can't now. I can only stare at the same page and sneak the occasional look at him. Did he just glance at me? Why am I sweating now? I'm actually stress sweating. Wait. Did I put on deodorant this morning? Of course not. Great, I smell like I'm from Belgium.
I may need to re-think this strategy. The quieter I am, the easier it is for him to ignore my presence. I mean, why on earth would he want to do that? Here I am, attractive (in a plump, slightly mommish kind of way). I am obviously happily married and settled with kids (having the appropriate rings and enormous handbag to prove it). I am clearly mentally deranged (as evidenced by talking aloud to myself before take off). Am I not perfect for him?
More and more he seems to be focusing on the rather attractive airline attendant that keeps bringing him drinks and flirting with him. Size two with big boobs. And a southern accent. Oh please. Is that for real? She is not my favorite.
She keeps talking. I don't like her at all. Not because she is flirting (successfully) with him. But because she is an affront to all women, and all blondes, and all southern belles, and all flight attendants. She may be hot, but really what about feminism?! Wait. The part about me judging her because of how she looks and the fact she's acting sort of crazy around this man? I'm being assholish. I remember being in my twenties and single. Sort of. It was a long time ago.
I wonder if anyone else is noticing what's going on between these two. Oh yeah! All the men in first class are smiling at her and looking smug. All the women are avoiding eye contact. What is really going on here? I'm suddenly afraid we're watching a little show where this young woman arranges an impersonal sexual encounter with this famous actor and we all watch it go down like we're part of some voyeuristic Mile High Club.
No, thank you. I wish I were back in coach with my people. My people don't do this sort of thing. Who was I kidding? I am not some first class, fancy-pants person. I fly coach. This is just nauseating.
Well if he goes for that sort of thing then I am not watching his abs ever again. Probably. That'll show him. For all he knows I could be a well connected, moneyed type of person who flies first class all the time. And if I were one of those people, then I would be eccentric and not psychotic. Then his disgraceful conduct and the fact that he is stupidly and meanly ignoring me would be wrong.
Doesn't he know that he is supposed to start up a conversation with me? And from our instant and natural rapport flows an exchange so meaningful as to cause him to fall deeply in love with me? That of course would lead to him propositioning me with sex and possibly marriage, which of course I would delicately deny him, while also searing my lovely, brilliant, and demure image into his memory. So that at age 85 when writing his memoirs I am mentioned several times as the only woman who could have ever made him happy? What is wrong with him? Here I am right across the aisle and still, nothing, no playful banter, no longing glances, nothing.
Sigh . . . This whole thing makes me sick. I am going to the bathroom where I at least don't have to watch this anymore.
As I wash my hands and prepare to re-apply lipstick, I - Oh dear. How long ago was lunch? Good God. I have been walking around for 3 hours and 45 minutes with a stain on my shirt directly over my nipple. It's disgusting. It looks exactly like my left boob is leaking. And the stain is crusty. And I don't even know what's worse - that the stain is there and he hasn't noticed because he hasn't looked at my tits even once or that in one glance, he was able to ascertain that I am in fact a giant boobstain. I feel like screaming "Yes! I am a boobstain! You should know that about me! I think it's low fat ranch! But we should still be friends!"
I return to my seat with my face a shade of red usually reserved for hot rods and tomatoes. This is the worst flight I have ever been on. This is stomach churning torture. And to make matters worse, the Daughter of the Confederacy stewardess is STILL THERE. Oh I give up.
Wait a minute. He just said thank you and then sort of turned his back on her. Now he appears to be reading something. Can it be? That he is actually a sweet man? Who flirted with her only because he didn't want to be rude? Now he wants to read and be left alone?
Oh look . . . He's falling asleep. How cute is he? Oh no. I shouldn't watch him sleep. This poor man, with all these people watching whi
le he's trying to rest. Does he know that everyone is looking at him while he sleeps? This is sort of gross. I am watching him sleep and for some reason it makes me feel dirty. And not in a good way. I resolve not to look at him again.
I am not looking at him.
Hours pass and I am not looking at him.
Actually only about six minutes have passed.
This is kind of hard. I sigh and look at my watch again. We're landing soon. My window of opportunity is almost over. No one is going to believe that he was sitting right next to me. I can't take a picture of him with my phone without everyone seeing me and besides, doing it while he's sleeping just feels yucky.
We're descending. He's still crashed out. I start to panic. In a minute he will walk off this plane and the next time I see him he'll be 10 feet tall, projected onto a wall in suburban Washington, DC.
We're landing and he's awake. Damn it. I missed my chance. Why couldn't have I said something clever? Why did I have to get shy, subverting my normally obstreperous personality? I could have at least stammered out something. Even something knuckle-headed like "Uh . . . Omigod! You're that guy! You were so good in that movie with your abs!" (To which he would have assuredly responded with "Bugger off!" or some other tough and foreign sounding obscenity.) That at least would be something I could brag about to my friends ("Did you hear about the time that actor told me to 'bugger off' in first class?? Hee hee hee!") But no, I didn't even get that.
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