I have no idea what brought that on. Maybe she knows something I don't. If that wasn't enough, she had additional questions about my funeral. The cool part was that I didn't flinch or look up or anything. Nothing Miss Morbid Pants had to say got me excited or kept me from the food on my plate. When she was quite done with her questioning, I calmly and very elegantly told her, with my head slightly tilted and nose in the air, that my death would not be unlike my life... completely fabulous in every way. I wanted it all.
The crazy thing is that I have actually planned this whole event in my head a hundred times, and I was kind of glad she was asking. I told her that I know exactly what I would like when I leave this earth and if she really wanted to know, I would tell her.
She explained very sweetly that I am so exacting about special events that she wanted to make sure that I had everything perfect when the day came. Once we got over the initial icki-ness of the conversation, we began to talk about it with great sensitivity. It just seemed like the perfect no-holds-barred opportunity to spit it all out. I took a deep breath and began.
"I want a nice casket," I said, “Don't let them sell you one that costs the same as a car, just get a decent one that you can fix up real fast." I then explained that it only had to look pretty good from the outside because the mega loads of floral tributes flanking it would cover most of it up. I went on to say that it was the inside that had to be really great. I wanted lots of padding and sumptuous poofiness that would be "Fifi-ized" when she and my other sister re-upholstered the inside with leopard print velvet. I assured her that it could be done easily with a glue gun the night before the services. I went on to explain that I wanted to be laid to rest in a tufted sea of leopard print, wearing a dress make from the same fabric. She didn't get it, so I stopped to explain. "You know, Sister, like a COSMO cover when the model's outfit and the background are the same color and one just blends into the other".
As I continued with great enthusiasm, I got a glimpse of my poor sis across the table. I'm sure her knees were weak at this point, but nothing was stopping me now. If she didn't want to know, she shouldn't have asked. I continued by telling her in detail that I was adamant about keeping the “FUN“ in funeral and that I wanted to be sure that everyone had a time they would remember always.
"Maybe Six Flags will be available that day," she replied with a sarcastic lilt to her voice. "That might work! What a great idea, Sister", I said, just a little snottily. "Perhaps they can strap me to the Colossus (I love that roller coaster), but don't forget that the first car is my fave!"
I am sure my poor sister wished she never started the whole thing, but I was grateful. She now knows that I don't want depressing music or a sappy eulogy. I want Motown and funk and Mozart. I want my friends to get up and tell stories. I want laughter, not sadness. After the funeral I want a party where everyone gets stupid drunk on good Champagne and remembers in great detail how wonderful I was and absolutely daffy I could be at times. Then I want to be cremated and my ashes put in little mini-urns. I would like there to be enough so whoever wanted some Fifi dust could have some to take home and remember me by. Kinda the ultimate party favor, don't you think?
We finished lunch and our conversation. My sister was a little paler than usual and I am betting that she is secretly hoping that she goes first. But now she knows what to do when it’s time for me to take my dirt nap. I don’t have to worry about it at all.
It's pretty fabulous to plan your grand exit from this earth and eat a great cheeseburger at the same time.
