Ever had one of those days? Maybe it was a couple of days? Where no matter what you do, or how you do it, something or somebody is gonna fuck it up. In every direction.

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My best friend’s mother died a couple of weeks ago. She had been ill for quite a while and actually lived a year and half longer than they said she should. She always had a tendency to defy the odds.

She was stubborn like that.

At the time of her death, she was living in Houma La., with my friend’s brother. Houma is 7 hours south of us.

BF (I believe that stands for “best friend,” according to the texting fools in my life) has always been there for me. My parents’ deaths, my husband’s death, too many deaths.  So, there was no question. Of course, I would be there for her.

“Let’s take my car. I’ll drive.”

I have a big ole' Buick and she didn’t need to be driving, anyway. So we loaded up. BF, myself, and her two 20-something daughters, to whom, I’ve been “Aunt Fab,” since they were born. 

There were funeral arrangements to attend to, so this was a bit of a harried road trip. We wanted to get there before the funeral home closed. We stopped for tee-tee times (as we called it, when the girls were little) and a quick lunch. That’s it.

Now let me add here, that the girls LOVE road trips. BF and I don’t like to drive at night, always go the speed limit, and avoid driving on long trips, whenever possible. We are not the young chickens we use to be.

But the bonding moments are always precious.

Stories were shared. One was about Oldest, when she was pregnant. She was on the road with hubby and friends, when she desperately needed to go to the bathroom. Nowhere to pull over, pouring down rain, 7 months pregnant, she literally used a diaper. If an astronaut could do it, so could she. The visualization was pretty strange, to say the least.

We needed a little lightweight humor.

Another remembrance was when the girls were little kids. They told me how they knew when it was time to hush.

“You would hit that tone of voice and 'like' used the magic words. And ‘like’ when we would be picking on each other and 'like' you would break up our fight. And ‘like’ one of us would continue whining. ...Seems like y’all tried to sooth our little kid souls, ‘like’ with kind words.... Then you, Aunt Fab, would, ‘like,’ get the look and the tone. And then, 'like,'  here came the magic words……"

              “SUCK IT UP!”

Yes, I admit it. I have been known to use this phrase when enough is enough. When you’re bellyaching is more than I can bear. When there is not a damn thing wrong with you. When you are just trying to get attention. Perhaps a “mom” thang, but I’ve had a few past employees that were familiar with the phrase. And maybe one or two of the husbands.

Oldest added, “And, ‘like’ I say it to my kids all the time. It works! And I ‘like’ told this chick at work that was, ‘like’ really getting on my nerves, to SUCK IT UP the other day. She, ‘like,’ finally, shut up!

“And I say it all the time to my kids in my daycare class,” Youngest chimed in, gleefully, “They know time out is next.”

My thoughts of whether I had been a good influence or perhaps, not-so-good of an influence, in my “nieces” lives, twirled in my post-menopausal brain. I would ponder these stories. 

We arrived too late for a “viewing”. A whole hour after the funeral home closed. Oh please, don’t stay open for an hour or so? They knew we were coming. These girls just wanted to say goodbye to their grandmother. But we understand. You’re just running a business. A funeral home business that is suppose to be sympathetic. But hey, you got a family, right? How ‘bout this family? (noted to self: suck it up, flamingo woman…. calm down….breathe)

The next morning, we visited the funeral home. It was a white metal building sitting in the middle of a beautiful, Louisiana graveyard… where all the glorious marble tombs are above ground. Crappy metal building. Beautiful cemetery. (I would have never thought, I’d look back at this experience and wished I had had a camera.) 

Just didn’t look right, though. It seems…. This place was the only Crematorium in the parish.

The girls and BF ask to see mom, one last time, to say goodbye.

“Oh no, you can’t do that. “ snapped the taut-lipped-troll-of-a-woman, with a glare that made me shiver.

Then……. I got a tad testy…. the tone was coming…I could feel it, like a hot flash…it’s a surge that ya just can’t help, meno-maniacal thoughts of my hands around her little scrawny neck with her little feet dangling in the air…

(Suck it up, ole, girl)

In the sweetest, loudest, without-echoing-too-bad-in-this-damn-metal-building, voice, I replied, “These ladies have driven 7 hours, from Arkansas, to say goodbye to their mom and grandma and you say they can’t?”

(Another octave up and by now, the voice has turned into a full-fledged, extremely bitchy, Southern drawl..)

“SUGAR…….THAT IS JUST NOT ACCEPTABLE.”

Ten minutes later, they were able to say goodbye. In the supply room, along side the bleach, the mops, and the rags.

Mom was to be cremated in Louisiana and carried home to Houston. BF explained that a memorial service was scheduled for Sunday in Houston. Another 7 hours away. (This was Thursday.)

Well, the funeral home couldn’t do the deal, until the doctor had signed the death certificate.

What? It’s been a day and half and he has yet to sign it?

BF informs the wonderful funeral home scrawny-necked troll, that we would get the certificate signed today.

So here we go…Four, very determined, women, on a mission…. to the doctor’s office…. for the signature.

And, bless their silly little hearts; they actually attempted to thwart our efforts. The receptionist informs us the doctor was busy and it would probably be the next day, before he could get to it.

WHOA! Wait a minute. In one of my many past careers, I managed a 5-doctor clinic.  Ask me, how many times I stuck a form under the doctors’ noses for a signature? Just ask me?

Surely you are kidding, little perky receptionist? “Tell, his nurse to stick this in front of him and get him to sign it. We are under a tad bit of a deadline. The funeral home will do nothing, ‘til they get the signature.” (I think I had hit the tone…but meno-maniacal thoughts were encompassing my mind and my words.)

Perky was then informed, in the oh-so-sweet-southern-bitch-kinda way, by BF, “We need it now and we shall sit here in your waiting room until he signs it.”

BF’s eyes were dripping. But she sucked it up.

And we sat there…. Loudly…with the 30 sick people, waiting to see the fine doctor.

 Next thing you know, here comes his nurse, another sweet little perky thing. She was intimidated before we even opened our mouths.

Several staff continued to ease-drop.

She tried to give us the same old song and dance. Guess what, sweetie….

“THIS IS NOT ACCEPTABLE!”

Bless her little intimidated heart. Four steel magnolias came down on her, like momma dogs protecting their pups. She assured us she would take care of it. We assured her, we would be calling every 30 minutes until the signature had been delivered.

Thirty minutes later, darlin’ Oldest, (who had obviously acquired ‘the tone’, when blessed with toddlers), called the doctor’s office. Fifteen minutes later, the funeral home had the signature.

Another lady at the funeral home (a nice lady) just had to know how we got the signature so quickly. Seems this doctor had a bit of a reputation for not being very cooperative.

 “Gentle southern persuasion, my dear.”

Mom’s ashes were placed in a beautiful wood veneer box with carved roses on top. We had to remove the “made in China” sticker on the bottom, because BF’s brother hates “made in China” stuff. 

That night, Houma had something like 10 to 12 inches of rain. Oh my gawd!

We arose, had a bite to eat at the wonderful breakfast bar of the hotel, and mentally prepared ourselves for the 7-hour trip to Houston.

BF seemed to have taken a breathe.

Then we found out, the funeral home road was under water.

CRAP! SHIT! HELL!

There was water everywhere. The bayous were over the banks.

I guess after hurricanes, these south Louisiana folks know how to get rid of water. By 10 am, we could make it to the funeral home and out of town.

We picked up mom, placed her gingerly, in the backseat, between her granddaughters, and away we went.

The girls wanted to protect grandma on her trip home.

Of course, first stop was honey buns, for the girls, at a stop –n- rob…oh wait a minute, I remember, I’m in Louisiana. It’s a ‘convenience store,” here.

(For the record, I hate honey buns.)

I decidedly to tee tee, one more time, before hitting the road.  Never made it into the store. Instead, I hit the pavement. As my late husband use to say, "Assholes and elbows everywhere."

Damn crocs (rubber shoes for those of you that don’t know) and wet concrete! It wasn’t a pretty picture.

“No problem…. I can drive,” I said ignorantly.

When we stopped for lunch and I tried to get out of the car, I was stove clean up. (That’s southern for, I was stiff). My arm hurt, my leg hurt. I thought to myself… “It’s hell getting’ old…..

Next thought was “oh just suck it up…ole’ girl”

Anyway, it was time for a youngin' to drive. 

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Part 2, tomorrow. The ridiculous chain of events, continues.

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This story is dedicated to my Best Friend. There is nothing I can say to ease the pain of your loss. You DO know, I understand. As in the past dramas of our lives, may humor in the memories help ease the pain. We knew it would be a great story while we were livin' it.  I Love you!