7-11   Happy Birthday, Cuckoo.
10 years and 200 posts, seems i’d exhausted your million passions, zillion idiosyncrasies, and bazillion Phyllisstories.  So when random stuff about the grandkids’ grandma, both good and bad, that i’ve never before noted, comes to mind, i jot it down for October and July.

On days of commemoration, you always sent notes to those we knew who’d lost a child.
The kids reminded me, when you drove and listened to your audio murder mysteries, if you missed a phrase you would rewind even a word, multiple times, til you heard it right.  And if you didn’t know a word, you’d write it down and look it up later.   The same way you’d read before falling asleep.  You’d be fighting nodding off, and i’d say, “You’ve been on that page for 20 minutes”.
The first few years we were together, then married, If you were with new people, you were so stunningly beautiful, it was every-fucking-time common, actually expected, that somebody would hit on you.  My Mom’s friends, relatives, my friends, other teachers, guys in stores, even your doctors.  Really.
We didn’t see eye-to-eye on lots.  Even if my take was reasonable, the culmination to many of our arguments was your,”I’m putting my foot down,” sudden confirmation it was over.
You paid a zillion dollars nearly every year to get those hugely oversized custom red glasses.
i finally remembered the name of your library presentations about the L.A. River Channel.  You called it Swiftwater.
You’d refer to our kids as “both my boys….”
I’ve never mentioned you were really hurt the day Jody was born when, that night, they raised the velvet rope at Valley Presbyterian, and my Mom was late.  It’s certainly not to the level of the baby shoes or leaving Boston, but one of the defaults when you got mad at me.
The Honey Bunch story.  You’d never known or heard of anyone else named Phyllis.  Everyone knows you were always reading.  In second grade you started walking, by yourself, to Winthrop Library.  You’d sit on the library floor and read all 43 Honey Bunch books.  In only one book, there was an obnoxious girl who bullied Honey Bunch.  Her name was Phyllis Bumper.  After that, you said you hated your name.
Surprisingly often, though the years, i notice something new-to-me like a cat hanger in the closet, a tiny poem about motherhood in the other bathroom, eensy wood or ceramic the kids made in school, a funny fridge magnet, or any of 100 minuscule tzutkes in boxes in your drawers. In the garage last month, i found a large box of each of your Agoura High Bulletins the years you were Parent President and another box of various, all different, glass keepsakes from the Chatsworth High proms you ran as Senior Class Adviser.
You always forgave kids’ overdue book fines, unless it was one of the bullies.
Colleagues, Agoura parents, students, neighbors, townspeople loved you,  You never blew her own horn or that of our kids.  You nearly never spoke of yourself, if it weren’t self-deprecating.  You always credited other kids, parents, teachers.  You were the one the teachers trusted to speak out. Parents too. You won every election you entered.
Annually, the arrival of Girl Scout Thin Mint Cookies, Cadbury Eggs, Egg Nog, pumpkin cookies, and blueberries (“Sweet as shugah”) were holidays.
Dinner was sup-pah, a drinking fountain was a bub-blah, my Mom was Buh-neece.
When you took exception to my manners, you’d say, “I can’t take you anywhere” or  “That is just ru-ude” (always with 2 syllables;  3 syllables when you’d call me “a puh-ru-ude”.
You never threw away an ever-present diet-soda 6-pack plastic holder without cutting it up, for fear the stupidest fish in the world might strangle in it at the dump.
Thought i’d noted all of them, from Agatha Christie to Janet Evanovich, Columbo to The Closer; you had to know every word (more rewinding and ereading) in your mystery shows and books.  Somehow i had forgotten to mention all your Alfred Hitchcock Presents books and tv shows and movies.
When i’d rub your feet in bed, if you or i’d be falling asleep, and i stopped, you’d kick me to keep going.  You’d say, “You’re not doing a good job.”
Politically, as passionately far left on everything, especially women’s and gay rights, as you were, anyone named Kennedy or Clinton was upper humanity.  They could kill a girl or nail an intern, and it must’ve been the girl’s fault.
Drippy eggs and very crisp bacon.  No tarter sauce with your clams; no butter, antennae, or eyes on your lobster.(“Get them off!!”)  Zucchini, eggplant, scallions, spinach, lettuce and every vegetable ever with no taste. Cinnamon rolls, garlic breadsticks, strawberry crepes.  All washed down with you-know-what.
The cats also could do no wrong, even comparatively.  When Webby’d go hunting and come to the back door with  an oh-so-cute baby bird or lizard or mouse squirming in his mouth, you’d always say, “Oh, Webby brought us a present.” For ten fucking years, our evil damn pee-kitty Squeaky would miss the litter box, and you’d say, “She’s old, she can’t help herself.”
From childhood, you were a workaholic.  Although you always worked full time, you never complained, other than being tired, while doing 99% of the cleaning, clothes shopping, groceries, dishes, home improvement, laundry, and finances for all four of us.  i’m certainly not complaining, but no-one believes that you got quite angry at me if i did any of the laundry or dishes or bills or food shopping.  You’d say,  “I don’t like the way you do it.”   Then, (see previous) “I’m putting my foot down.”  Fortunately, you could burn jello, and never insisted on cooking.

It’s not that i think of you every hour or every day.  You are always on my mind. i miss you so much, Cuckoo.  i love you to the sky.  Happy birthday, Phyllis.