If you read my last post, you know that Thursday was a really sad day for us. So was Friday, and Saturday, and Sunday. My son actually said, “Our house doesn’t even feel like a home anymore.” We’re getting there though. We have cried a little less each day.

In addition to sadness, there have been glimmers of good. It started when we took a walk just a couple of hours after we put Blue down. I took this photo and noted that it had been gray and cloudy all day until we decided to take a walk to Blue’s favorite pond.

The next day, I was looking at the picture again, when I suddenly saw Blue in the clouds.

See her? With her tennis ball and shark fin angel wing? My friend, Melisa, who once wrote a book for children about the loss of a pet, told me that I would start seeing signs everywhere.

On Friday, my daughter’s teacher was telling a story about a book she had just read. She was moved to tears by the death of the main character’s 14 year old dog.

That same evening, my husband was watching a fishing show. He fishes, but he never watches fishing shows. Well, that’s not true, we both watch Deadliest Catch, but not really for the fishing; more for the train wreck of chain-smoking, crab-boat crews. Anyway, he was watching this fishing show that kept making reference to catching something called a “Blue Dog.”

And, in church yesterday, the homily was about being reunited with those you love; all of us restored, whole and without pain.

Thank you, Blue. I hope you keep sending us messages.

Also, if you could keep those messages off of the bottom of my shoe, I would be really grateful.

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A few days ago, I lifted our old dog, Blue, off the floor and as she hobbled across the living room, my nine year old son stood watch.

Our 14 year old Labrador has had bad hips for awhile, but recently one of her front legs went out and she’s had a tough time walking at all. After she and I had slowly passed through our porch, I let her out of the back door and turned to find my son standing there with tears in his eyes.

Before I could say anything he said, “Mom, my eyes are kind of watery.”

I knelt down and grabbed his shoulders. “What’s the matter, buddy?”

He replied, “Well, I’m sad for two reasons. Blue is hurting and she’s old, so I know that means she’s going to die soon.”

I nodded. “Yes, but after she dies she’s going to run and chase squirrels and bunnies again, just like she used to.”

His eyes widened, then he stuck his fingers under his glasses and wiped his tears away. Suddenly, a smile crept over his face and he said, “Wow! She’s going to have a blast in heaven!”

We love you, Blue and we’re wishing you tons of tennis balls and mailmen. Saying goodbye to you was one of the hardest things I have ever done, but I wouldn’t trade you being part of our family for anything.

Blue 4/17/98 – 4/26/12

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“If you can’t make it better, you can laugh at it.” -Erma Bombeck

When I tell people what I do for a living, it is inevitable that they will ask, “What do you write about?”

My usual reply is, “I write a humor blog. A lot of the posts are about my son who has sub-threshold autism, congenital heart disease, moderate hearing loss, a missing tear duct, and he often chokes and vomits.” Then I’ll follow with, “Isn’t that hilarious?! Just wait until I tell you about all of his surgeries!”

One of the best things about attending the Erma Bombeck Writer’s Workshop this weekend was that no one looked at me like I had two heads when I gave them that answer. They understood that it’s okay to laugh at bad situations.

Sure, humor can come from light, but quite frequently it comes from someplace dark. It is how many a comedian or author has coped with tragedy and pain. It’s how I cope with mine. That, and peanut butter, but that’s another story.

Let me ask you a few questions: Are you going through a tough time? Are you laughing anyway? Why the heck not?

At the closing keynote of the Erma workshop, humorist, Gina Barreca, talked about motivational quotes; specifically, the one that says, “Bloom where you’re planted.” She urged us NOT to follow that advice.

Instead of being forced into the ground where someone else has decided to plant you, she told us to pick up and plant ourselves where WE choose. I agree. If you want to grow, move to an open, sunlit area free of all of the suffocating dirt. And, worms. Unless you like worms, in which case you should move yourself to a compost pile.

For me, laughter is the sun. It is where I go when I need to pull myself away from the weeds and it is what has saved me from going mad because of all the curve-balls life has thrown my way. Don’t worry, I won’t go from gardening metaphors to baseball metaphors. Well, other than that curve-ball thing. And, to be honest, it’s kind of killing me not to say something about line-drives.

My point is that it’s good to laugh. It’s good for for the heart, the soul, the mind and for laundry detergent manufacturers. Don’t tell me you’ve never peed your pants while laughing. No, really. Don’t tell me. *pauses writing to concentrate on kegels*

Listen to Erma, Gina and me (please excuse my lack of modesty while I insert myself into a sentence with those two legends), especially when I tell you that you owe me money. Or, when I tell you to laugh.

Because if you can laugh in the face of adversity your plant will flower through every season.

And that, my friends, feels a lot like hitting one out of the park.

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Tomorrow is my husband’s 41st birthday, so I’m giving him the best gift I could think of; I’m going out of town.

I feel a lot of guilt about this. Tons of guilt. Like, there is an elephant named Guilt sitting on my chest. Too much?

I will be attending the Erma Bombeck Writer’s Workshop at the University of Dayton. There will be a lot of intelligent, hilarious women in attendance and I hear that, as far as humor writing workshops go, it’s the best. Not to mention that Erma Bombeck is my idol. *watches 20-something readers flee*

This workshop only comes around every other year and I spent two years waiting for them to release the 2012 dates. I couldn’t wait! And, when they did, I saw that the workshop fell smack-dab on my husband’s birthday. Dang the bad luck!

So, why am I talking about Erma Bombeck on my husband’s birthday? Because he is so unselfish, that he is giving me this gift. He does that a lot. For the last five years I have gone about living my dream, and before that I was able to stay home and raise our children; all while he plugs along at a thankless, commissioned, sales job in the mortgage business.

Yeah, meet my elephant.

This man has been faithful to our vows and has been true to me in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer, and he’s one of the most generous guys I know.

Don’t get me wrong, my husband is a grumpy, cynic. He is stubborn and, oh my goodness, does he like to be right. But, guess what? I’m not perfect either. Please see aforementioned in sickness and in health thing. Plus, I’ve gained so much weight since we got married that it’s possible you could mistake me for my elephant.

He is frequently funny, sometimes romantic, and always supportive. Not many men would say, “Honey, I’m going to the office, you just stay home and blog.” Go ahead and tell me that isn’t the sexiest thing you’ve ever heard. *swoon*

So, while I’m off gallivanting through Dayton (to the extent that one can gallivant through small, Ohio towns) my husband will be shuffling the kids to and from school, softball and church and eating the day-old cake I made him. I hope he has a great day despite my absence, or even because of it (read: tossing cake, eating cookies that our friend always makes him).

Happy birthday, Dado Fali! Thank you for making my dreams come true.

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