Pat MacMillan 1941-2007
For a long time, Pat and my Mom were roommates at my Mom's house, the house where I grew up.
I used to call Pat "not my Mom's lesbian lover" (which was true, the not part) until I figured out that people thought that was code, somehow for "my Mom's lesbian lover" so then I just called her Pat and let them figure it out.
Pat was like this crazy redheaded British ray of sunshine who would always wander into and out of my life at erratic intervals. She gave some of the worst presents ever and you still couldn't help but love her for it. She was one of the few people I didn't mind talking to about crazy schemes and moneymaking ventures because her ideas were always fun and didn't involve too much work.
She was a terrible cook. She was the only one my Mom would let call her Lizzie. She read my website at 4:20 every day she was at work with no irony whatsoever. She said I gave the best hugs.
Pat was deadset against any sort of obituary or memorial to her. No services, no funeral, nothing. She grudgingly accepted a little notice that will be in the paper this week which notes that her last wish is that "you take a friend out to lunch."
I plan to do just that.