Yesterday was my grandfather's birthday. He would have been 82, but he died last year, a month before my wedding.

Poppie was my last surviving grandparent. You know you're an adult when you become a grandparent-less child.

Poppie used to say I was lucky because I knew all four of my grandparents. "When I was your age," he'd recall, "grandparents didn't live long enough to meet their grandchildren."

The first grandparent I lost was Pop Pop. I was only five when he died, but I still remember him vividly. Pop Pop had a shock of wiry grey hair and wire-rimmed glasses. He worked as a carpenter at the Domino Sugar Factory in Philadelphia and died several years later of mesothelioma. Before he got sick, Pop Pop was a vibrant man. I remember that he used to visit us at our old house on Nanton Terrace with his dog, Angel, who, at least in my memory, was a Siberian Husky with a thick white coat and fangs. He'd always bring gifts for my sister and me- usually strings of colorful beads. I remember he and my dad used to sit on the back porch drinking mugs of hot tea- probably the only time I've ever seen my dad drinking hot tea. I also remember that we used to dye Easter Eggs together, though, in reality, I'm probably recalling only one time because I was so young when he died.

I could tell that Pop Pop was sick because he stopped visiting and my dad's face took on a grave palor. One day I came home from kindergarten after learning a new word and asked my dad, "Daddy, is Pop Pop ill?" "Yes, Colleen," my dad replied solemnly, "Pop Pop is ill." "Well I'm sure he'll feel better soon," I replied cheerfully, proud that I had used my new word correctly. Pop Pop died about a month later.

At Pop Pop's funeral, my dad served as a pall-bearer. It was one of only two times that I've seen my dad cry. The other time was when I got deferred from Notre Dame. ( "I just don't understand," my dad lamented. "That school was built to educate the children of working-class Irish Catholic families." "Times have changed, Dad," I replied. "Diversity matters now. They've probably filled their Colleen Mulhern quota for the year.") After Pop Pop's funeral, my parents held a large reception at the Rosebrier Inn. Because my sister and I did not fully understand death as a permanent end, we had a great time filling up on Shirley Temples with extra maraschino cherries and dancing to imaginary music on the vast dance floor. I still don't know if I ever truly mourned the death of my first grandfather. Every memory I have of him is happy and positive, and I think I like it that way.

Pop Pop has been dead for 21 years, but I still remember exactly how he smelled. I don't know the name of the aftershave he used, but I do know that it's the same aftershave that John Murgitroyde, the guy who sat behind me in homeroom for four years, used. "You smell like my dead grandfather," I said to him one day on our way to first period. I think he was insulted, but I meant it as a sincere compliment.

For a very long time, I had three grandparents. Then, in my senior year of college, Nana died from a stomach aneurysm.

The only way to accurately describe Nana is to say, simply, she was a character. She was born and raised in Shenandoah, Pennsylvania, a small mining town in Schuylkill County, which she pronounced as "Shan-a-doe." The only other notable people to come from Shenandoah were the Dorsey brothers- Tommy and Jimmy- who were popular 1930s jazz musicians. One of Nana's favorite stories to tell when she visited was that when my dad was little, he used to swim in Tommy Doresy's swimming pool. After Nana left, my dad would say, "That never happened."

Because she was from Shenandoah, Nana had an arsenal of quirky phrases nobody uses south of the Poconos, including, "Hey there, Howdy Doody," "That's the main thing," and "Aye, Marone!" (I still don't know what that last one means). In addition to these choice phrases, Nana used plenty others not appropriate for tender ears, especially when she was playing an intense round of Bingo. For this reason, whenever my sister and I played Bingo with Nana, we'd set out a "swearing jar," in which she'd have to place a quarter every time she swore. We made out like bandits!

As a cheerleader at Shenandoah Catholic High School, Nana's nickname was "Blondie," and she had a full head of blonde, close-cropped curls until the day she died. Her signature color was red, and I don't remember a day that she was without her fire engine red lipstick and coordinating nail polish. Her eyes were the color of ash and she always, always, had an ashy Cimarron cigarette drooping from her crimson lips.

Nana was mostly Irish but part German, her mother being one Edith Schmidt. Because of her German heritage, she was a fantastic cook. Goulash, pierogies, galumkis, kielbasa: if you couldn't say or spell it then, chances are, Nana was making it for dinner. When she'd go to restaurants, however, Nana was an impossibly picky eater. She'd always order the same thing: "Veal parm, dry, no cheese, sauce on the side." She'd eat about four bites and then wrap up the remainder- along with any leftover rolls- to take home to her own kitchen where she would, in her words, "doctor it up."

Nana and I had a close relationship, closer than I think my sister had with her because my sister scares easily and Nana was a bit of an eccentric. For example, most people view squirrels as nuisances, but, in her later years, Nana adopted the vocation of feeding peanut butter crackers to the little rodents that surrounded her kitchen window every morning. Nana and I called one another "My Buddy," and spent several summer afternoons together watching The Price Is Right and, her all-time favorite, Hawaii Five-0. I have an aunt who lives on Oahu whom Nana loved to visit. As we'd watch Jack Lord fight island crime, Nana would proudly point out all the places to which she had been.

After she died, I wondered who would feed the squirrels.

My relationship with Grandmom was very different from, but equally special as the relationship I had with Nana.

Grandmom was my second mother. If I wanted to do anything, like take a day trip to New York City, I'd first run it by my mother, who would call my grandmother, who would then call me to ask things like, "Well how are you going to get there?" "Who are you going with?" and "Are you going to stay off the subways?" Grandmom was a persistent worrier.

Grandmom was one of eight children. She loved to tell the story of how, when she and her siblings required new shoes, her mother would measure each child's foot with a length of string and then take the string, rather than the children, to the shoe store. She thought that was so clever.

Of all my grandparents, I look like Grandmom the most. There's a picture of her from first grade, sitting at her desk with her hands folded, soft-boiled egg running down the front of her solid blue jumper. It sits on my mother's coffee table next to an almost identical photo of me at that age, sans egg. We could be sisters, though I am clearly the less clumsy one.

Going to Grandmom's house was, honest-to-God, my favorite thing to do as a kid. I even had a red tote bag that read, "To Grandmother's house I go." Grandmom was like a big kid. She'd color with us, play Barbies with us, even make us awesome sailer hats out of newspaper. I didn't always like sharing Grandmom with my sister, so sometimes I'd fake sick to stay home from school and spend one-on-one time at Grandmom's. She'd let me watch Lamb Chop's Play Along and shampoo the dollies' hair in the powder room sink; sometimes she'd even use an eyeliner to draw big, fat freckles on my face like Punky Brewster. She'd use Pond's Cold Cream to remove the evidence before my mother picked me up after work, and that fresh, lemony scent will always remind me of her.

Sometimes it's the food that we remember best about grandparents. And at Grandmom's house, we consumed a lot of sweets: orange soda and Jell-O and rice pudding and Whitman's chocolates and "S Cookies," which we had to hide from Poppie, because he also had a sweet tooth. Grandmom even let me chew gum at her house, an activity that was strictly prohibited by my parents.

Like Nana, Grandmom loved cigarettes and Bingo. She also loved scratch-off lottery tickets and playing the slot machines in Atlantic City. Whenever she gambled, Grandmom was sure to bring along her Magic Wish Trolls and Dreamsicle figurines for good luck. They must have worked, because I often remember Grandmom coming home with a little extra cash lining her pockets. In the end, it wasn't the gambling, but the cigarettes, that did her in.

When Grandmom died, Poppie was devastated. They had been married for 63 years and Poppie could barely take care of himself. He eventually learned how to shop for groceries and do a load of laundry, but he was never quite the same after his beloved Ann went away.

Poppie appreciated life's simple pleasures. He enjoyed going to church, playing guitar, and receiving homemade birthday cards. He was a lifelong fan of Johnny Cash and, of course, Frank Sinatra. Poppie was thrilled when I moved to Hoboken after law school because it was the birth place of "Old Blue Eyes." When I was sworn into the New Jersey bar in Jersey City, Poppie agreed to attend on the condition that, afterwards, I took him to see Frank Sinatra's old house on Monroe Street. Although it was snowing, we made the pilgrimage, and he documented the event on a notecard I now carry in my wallet:

Frank Sinatra, DOB 1915, Dec. 12th
Hoboken, N.J.
614 Monroe St.
Where he lived and grew up
Don't throw away
I visited there on 12 16 08 with the Mulhern family

Growing up, Poppie was our biggest cheerleader. Grandmom found it difficult to sit through lengthy sacraments and tap dancing recitals, but Poppie documented every milestone on film. He was never without his bulky video camera. Poppie also enjoyed teaching my sister and me new songs, like "Don't Sit Under the Apple Tree" by the Andrews Sisters, which he would then record us singing. As a child I found these recordings mortifying, but now that I'm an adult, I treasure the memories on tape.

One of my favorite things to do with Poppie, aside from playing a round of Badminton, was going to the playground where, naturally, he would film me walking across the balance beam like an Olympic gymnast while "Chariots of Fire" played in the background. One day, when I was six, Poppie and I were on our way to the playground when I asked him a question about the current Philadelphia mayor:

"Poppie, is Mayor Goode's name Goode because he is a good person, or is that just his name?"

"That's just his name, Colleen, but I'm so impressed that you know who the mayor is. Do you know who the President is?"

"Of course," I replied, "It's George Bush."

Poppie was beaming. "Very good! I don't think I knew who the President was when I was your age."

I looked up at him in earnest and said, "I do. It was probably George Washington."

My grandfather laughed heartily, and he didn't stop laughing until the day he died. It was his absolute favorite story, and he told it to anyone who would listen.

So thanks for listening to all my grandparent stories.

I’m selling myself for Help a PR Pro Out Day (HAPPO), taking place on Friday, February 19. Everything else I have done to find a job hasn’t worked so maybe this will help me and all my creative PR friends find jobs again and we’ll live happily ever after.

So for all you employers out there looking for a talented PR professional with nearly 10 years experience in communications, public relations and writing, you have come to the right place. Here I am! Hire me!

Most recently, I worked with the American Red Cross of Northern New Jersey as the Director of Communications.  I experienced things in this role that I never thought imaginable. I traveled to disaster ravaged areas in a public affairs role, meeting with local and national media to deliver the message of the Red Cross. I was humbled by families who were impacted by disaster and built bonds with colleagues from across the nation.  I was N.J.’s lead spokesperson during two of the most notable aviation disasters in the northeast: US Airways flight 1549 on the Hudson River and Continental Airlines flight 3407 in Buffalo. I watched miracles and heartbreak occur within a month of one another.  And then they eliminated my department.

Whether I was on the ground or behind a desk, it was my job to make sure the mission of the organization was relayed to the public. I built a department from nothing. It was a challenge but something I am so proud of.  I did everything PR related.  Press releases, media interviews, collateral materials, editorial web content, fundraising and crisis communications, strategic planning, managing umbrella chapters’ communications; should I keep going?

Prior to joining a non-profit, which was a life-long dream, I worked with agencies in New York City handling the day-to-day duties of public relations.

In addition to my work in non-profit and media/entertainment, my industry experience spans corporate, beauty, fashion and consumer. I am also a contributing writer with a local newspaper in Essex County, New Jersey and a writer for Examiner.com

What I love about PR is bringing groundbreaking news or technology into the lives of everyday people. I like seeing an idea that seems lifeless suddenly grow leaps and bounds, all because of careful execution, determination and skill. I miss that. I miss being a part of that. Help bring me back there!

I’m on LinkedIn and Twitter and you can read my inner workings here. I look forward to hearing from you. And thanks for helping out this community. It’s been a rough year for our industry.