|
|
|
The Newsletter >
It's My Funeral and You're Invited
April 5, 2010
Please Note: As far as I know, I am in perfect health and any rumors of my impending death are pure gossip and heartless taunting.
My kitchen cabinet knobs do not match, and I love that they do not match, even though it drives my son-in-law, Phillip, batty.
He has informed me, “As soon as you’re dead, I’m changing out these goofy, eclectic, bohemian knobs.” (That is the official title for my decorating style—eclectic bohemian, which means I’m just this side of a gypsy queen and not adverse to bleached animal skulls as chotchkies.)
Phillip always looks itchy when he tells me about his de-knobbing of my kitchen on the event of my death. He mumbles about burning my giant gourd that flips open on a hinge, but I think it’s just idle gourd burning talk. It’s those knobs that really bug him.
I love those knobs for giving me a reason to live.
“Hey, Mom, come here and listen to the music we’re going to play at your funeral.” Adam, my teenage son, looked pleased and proud as he played the tune he had picked out for me. It was a wonderful, sentimental, joyful choice. I wept. It made me sorry I wouldn’t be there—at my funeral, with the excellent choice in music, and my son-in-law in attendance, counting down the minutes until he’ll be free to take the knobs off my kitchen cabinets.
Because the subject of my death and funeral seems to prove an endless source of amusement for my family (they’ve already decided that in place of a eulogy, they’ll be holding a “Mock-ogy,” which, apparently, is not dissimilar to a “Roast.”) First, they’ll play that really cool music and then someone will stand up and announce, “Let the mocking begin.”
Since it’s my funeral, I have a few suggestions for my enthusiastic, smart aleck family. And since I have an irrational fear of being in something, under something—like—in a car under the water, or in a New York City subway under New York City, or in a box under the ground, I would like to be buried above ground in a pyramid, assorted safety deposit boxes, catacomb, or eagle’s nest in the back pasture. My preference is the eagle’s nest, and I would like to be rolled to the nest using the little red wagon with the jittery wheels. An America flag should be flying at half-mast from the back of the wagon.
Crying is right out! Very few people look attractive crying, and I won’t have it. There should be folk dancing, but I’m sure when to fit it into the schedule, and since Phillip is going to remove them anyway, I’d like to be buried with my knobs and my thesaurus.
The advantage of having garnered the reputation for being a little eclectic and a lot bohemian during one’s lifetime is that people expect to see graffiti on the walls inside your house and bowling balls in your garden, and if they show up to your funeral they won’t be surprised by the free coupons to Golden Corral handed out at the door.
Linda (Gypsy Queen of the Buffet Line) Zern
|
|
