If you’re anything like me, you enjoy spending your cold December nights drinking hot toddies, numbly staring at the blinking Christmas lights and wondering just when you’re going to cough up a lung and die already. No? It’s just me? Seriously? Huh. Probably should call somebody about that.
Today’s Guest Post Friday topic is Death. (I know! I’m laughing already! Oh, man, let me just catch my breath here…No, I can’t! It’s just TOO hilarious!) Anyway, Jessica, Marinka & I decided to give our takes on what we think about our own demises. And you’ll see that we were all very introspective and deep about it. Uh-huh.
Jessica’s “Never Forget. Really, NEVER” is found on Marinka’s site.
And somehow I got lucky enough to have Marinka’s very funny post right here:
WELCOME TO MY FUNERAL
By Marinka (nycmomandmore.blogspot.com)
I am such a hypochondriac that when Jessica suggested that she, Wendi and I each do a post about our funerals, my first thought was “OMG, DOES SHE KNOW THAT I AM DYING?!” Because apparently in addition to being a mom, blogger and an actress, Jessica is now a part-time psychic who breaks the news of horrific ailments to other bloggers by email.
After I took my Paranoia-Be-Gone pill, however, I thought a little more about the assignment and realized that although I’d devoted a large part of my life to hypochondriazation, I had completely neglected to obsess over my own funeral. Needless to say, I was grateful for the opportunity to set that right.
I got the easy part out of the way first. I would like to be taxidermied and placed in a strategic place in our apartment. Preferably near the refrigerator, so that my family may remember me in my natural habitat.
If possible, I’d like my favorite TV shows played in a continuous loop, because what if the ancient Egyptians were right and I’ll be just in another place, without cable?
As for the service itself, I know what I don’t want–I don’t want a party where everyone has a lot of fun and remembers my life. Fuck that. I don’t give a shit about parties unless either I am there or a celebrity is. And the only way that a celebrity will be at my funeral is if Lohan runs me over and is forced to attend to show her probation officer that she can do remorseful.
I also don’t want a lot of music, because I’ll probably be en route to harp lessons myself, and too many extraneous melodies will distract me.
Speeches? Eh. I’ve heard my nearest and dearest and believe me, I don’t need to hear them again and neither do you. So, the bottom line is, to quote Yogi Berra, “surprise me.” If I don’t like what you’ve all come up with, I’ll blog about it on my new blog–Motherhood in NYC and The Great Beyond. I’ll be running Google Ads there, because I figure over the course of eternity, I’ll probably get the fifty bucks.
(And yes, I know that I totally cheated with this post. But your pointing it out is really disrespectful to the dead.)