My Dead Mom Won’t Send Me Signs

White Woman Speaks:

My friend Cece’s mom used to lullaby her with John Hyatt’s “Are You Ready For The Thing Called Love?” every night until she was six years old. Ever since her mom died last month, Cece has heard that song 10 times already, in stores and restaurants. Every one of our friends agrees that her mom is contacting her from beyond the grave. Our friend Jill is seeing blue everywhere, everyday – blue rooms, blue sweaters, blue cars and she knows it’s her mom, who loved the color blue, saying hello, she loves her.
 
My mom has been dead for a year and I never “hear” from her. I mean, she was hypercritical all my life and all our talks were mostly arguments. But the other night, I was dressing to go out on a date and I knew my clothes were all wrong and my brand-new eyeliner was goopy and the lipstick I’d bought turned out to be orange, not red like it was supposed to be, and you’d think my dead mom could send some kind of comforting sign, like a tissue that would mean, “Oh honey, wipe that shit off and put on the black dress that isn’t so low-cut.” But no, nothing, so I had to go on this stupid date looking like crap. Thanks, Mom.
 

 
When she was alive, my mom was usually taking some kind of prescription tranquilizer or drinking some wine to help her “get through the hell that was [her] life,” or both, so I kind of hoped she’d at least send me images of these things as a sign that she’s in Heaven.
 
Last week I was looking at the sky on the way to an interview, thinking maybe I’d see a cloud shaped like a Girl Scout badge. When I was nine years old, I had to quit Scouts after six weeks because my mother kept getting migraines whenever it was time to take me. I knew the cloud would be my dead mom’s way of saying, “I’m sorry, Becca, but what the hell was I supposed to do?” Nope, no cloud – AND I stepped into a big pile of gross dog shit. And I didn’t get the job. I’m such a disappointment. No wonder my own dead mother doesn’t want to “talk” to me.