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How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb
Monday, December 27th, 2010 08:44 pmGrandma passed away on the 23rd. The funeral is tomorrow and I have been instructed to dress casual because my family is "simple" and my uncle is concerned that I'll look silly "all decked out like some cityslicker." What this means is that I will stick out like a sore thumb if I wear a bra that can't also double as a tank top. I'm mentally banging my head against a wall because I think they're all being a teensy bit lazy.
I mean, really? It's your mother/grandmother's fucking funeral. I get that you like your camo and your coveralls and your steel-toed boots and your airbrushed Native American tee shirts. I get that. But you seriously can't suck it up and throw on a pair of khakis for the whopping three hours it takes to say some prayers and throw her in the ground? Really?
And then there's the post-funeral luncheon, which is being hosted by my cousin and is super top secret because she "doesn't want the ignorant relatives in her house." So, I am not to mention this luncheon to anyone at the funeral. A few specific "ignorant relatives" were listed for my reference, one of which is her brother. I'm not sure how we're supposed to keep this meal a secret from him though because he lives across the fucking street from her.
If I didn't have to drive tomorrow, I'd be packing a flask in my handbag.
Then again, in my family, that wouldn't exactly be frowned upon. I told Owen that if he gets bored tomorrow he can play Spot the Flask, Spot the Git-r-Done Hat, or Spot the Snuff. I also told him to keep a tally of how many times my face gets grabbed, smooshed, and scrutinized before a random distant relative who I haven't seen since the last funeral nods and announces to the entire hoard, "Yep. She's Charlie's baby girl alright."
And then in my head I think, "I'm almost twenty-four years old, for Christ's sake."
Though in random-relative's defense, I was the youngest girl in the family up until a month ago. So...I guess...in a way...that would, in fact, make me a baby.
I mean, really? It's your mother/grandmother's fucking funeral. I get that you like your camo and your coveralls and your steel-toed boots and your airbrushed Native American tee shirts. I get that. But you seriously can't suck it up and throw on a pair of khakis for the whopping three hours it takes to say some prayers and throw her in the ground? Really?
And then there's the post-funeral luncheon, which is being hosted by my cousin and is super top secret because she "doesn't want the ignorant relatives in her house." So, I am not to mention this luncheon to anyone at the funeral. A few specific "ignorant relatives" were listed for my reference, one of which is her brother. I'm not sure how we're supposed to keep this meal a secret from him though because he lives across the fucking street from her.
If I didn't have to drive tomorrow, I'd be packing a flask in my handbag.
Then again, in my family, that wouldn't exactly be frowned upon. I told Owen that if he gets bored tomorrow he can play Spot the Flask, Spot the Git-r-Done Hat, or Spot the Snuff. I also told him to keep a tally of how many times my face gets grabbed, smooshed, and scrutinized before a random distant relative who I haven't seen since the last funeral nods and announces to the entire hoard, "Yep. She's Charlie's baby girl alright."
And then in my head I think, "I'm almost twenty-four years old, for Christ's sake."
Though in random-relative's defense, I was the youngest girl in the family up until a month ago. So...I guess...in a way...that would, in fact, make me a baby.
