Lorna never met a sentence she couldn’t improve with the word fuck. She had it down to an art form — a real New Yorker through and through — sharp tongue, sharp mind, and zero patience for bullshit. She preferred “Queen Bitch” over just “bitch,” and if you forgot the title, she’d correct you so fast your feelings would still be buffering.

She was a mother, a prepper, and a jack of all trades — from macramé and jewelry making to whipping up her own laundry detergent like some foul-mouthed apocalyptic Martha Stewart. But don’t hand her a computer; she was completely computer illiterate and perfectly happy to stay that way. If it needed a password, a driver, or a software update, she wanted no part of it.

After spending roughly forty years in New York — with Queens as her final stomping ground — she moved to Puerto Rico, which she loved about as much as a colonoscopy: a necessary evil. She didn’t have to like it, but she handled it. There, she cooked, canned, and preserved meals like the world was always one day away from ending. Hurricanes? Power outages? Supply chain chaos? Lorna was three steps ahead with a pantry that could probably feed a small army and still have leftovers to complain about.

Family, Love & Selective Hate

She loved her daughter, Kyle, with a quiet but unshakeable ferocity. Family mattered to her — even if she expressed it with sarcasm, side-eye, and swear words instead of Hallmark card quotes. She had a complicated relationship with her younger sister — “love-hate” would be generous; “knew exactly where they stood” is probably more accurate. Lorna didn’t fake feelings to keep the peace. If she liked you, you knew it. If she didn’t… you really knew it.

Her Style: Dark, Honest, and Loud

Lorna’s humor was dark. Not “edgy” dark — the real, no-filter, life-is-messed-up-so-let’s-laugh-anyway kind of dark. She was brutally honest and unapologetic. She didn’t rewrite the truth to make it softer for you. She said what needed to be said, whether you were ready or not.

No Viewings, No Performances

Lorna knew exactly how she felt about the whole funeral-show routine, and she did not hold back. She didn’t want a viewing, and she made that crystal clear:

On Death, Grief, and Getting the Fuck On With It

Lorna was a straight arrow when it came to death. To her, it wasn’t some unspeakable horror; it was part of the deal. If you’re crying over her right now, she’d probably slap you (lovingly, sort of) and say something like:

She didn’t want people drowning in grief or making a shrine out of her absence. She wanted you to keep moving, keep laughing, keep swearing at the universe when it deserves it, and maybe stock a few extra jars in the pantry just in case.

So if you think of her — and you will — do it with a smirk, maybe an eye roll, and probably a well-timed “fuck”. Because that’s how she lived: loud, honest, imperfect, and absolutely herself, right until the end. So "FUCK OFF"