So like I told you in my heavy and ultra-serious post of yesterday, I realized I am, in fact, going to die someday. In light of that realization, I thought I would write out some rules for whomever will be tasked with planning my arrangements. Blog posts are legally binding, right?
As mentioned yesterday, you may under no circumstances play On Eagle's Wings, Be Not Afraid, I am the Bread of Life, Amazing Grace, or for the love of God, All I Ask of You. If upon reading any of these titles you are thinking to yourself, "Oh, I love that song! What is wrong with that song? It is so touching." then you are not the proper person for choosing my funeral music. You can be in charge of sandwiches.
My most pressing requirement in choosing a funeral parlor is that the mortician (Is that p.c.? I feel like that may be an offensive word or something.) be skilled in knowing how to properly present a female face. No hideous shades of lipstick, no caked on foundation and - this is important - the mortician must be aware of the critical importance of facial hair removal. I learned once that your hair continues to grow after you die for some time. That little factoid has sufficiently scared me out of ever dying and I have been on the perpetual quest to find a friend I can trust with the task of postmortem plucking.* Upon reading this, you are now hereby legally required that if attending my wake you immediately and inconspicuously pluck out any unsightly hairs you may notice with the tweezers you will have at the ready in your pocket.** I trust you can disguise this compassionate work of mercy with some clever prayer form as you kneel in front of my perfectly made up face.
*Also applies to comas.
**Bring a razor, too, just in case.
Also, find someone who will make my hair look fabulous. For once in my life (ha!) I'd like to have great hair.
No eulogy at the Mass. Just no. This has less to do with my profound humility as it does that it's not really a part of the funeral liturgy and this is the one time other than my wedding Mass that I get to insist on the rubrics. I'm dead, you're not allowed to be mad at me or roll your eyes. I do fully expect and invite many odes of praise and adulation, tears and anecdote sharing during the wake and at the luncheon afterwards.
There must be great food at the luncheon (or dinner, whatever you decide) afterwards. Or maybe just pizza. There should definitely be chicken wings.
Put something cool on my prayer cards and pick great readings.
If you spend ghastly amounts on flowers, you obviously did not know me and my cheapskate tendencies well. I will haunt you and instead of leaving dimes or pennies (that's a thing I've heard of) I will take them away. You'll be all, "Where did that money go?" and I'll be all "Hahaha! I'm bringing it to people who know how to use their money well!" (This is getting ridiculous.) Pick a few daisies if you must and give the money to something good.
On a related note, get me one of these things from the monks:
But if for some reason that doesn't work out, this will do:
It's a basket casket! A basket casket. That is totally me.
Or you could always send me out a la Boromir:
Which I'm guessing is probably illegal.
Have I sufficiently freaked you out yet? Fear not. Because while we Catholics take death seriously we also at the same time get to laugh in its face. Another one of those fun Christian dichotomies. Yay! We'll be heading out camping this weekend so this information may come in handy quite soon because bears.
Now get on over to Jen's where you are guaranteed takes of the way less morbid variety. And don't worry, I shall be switching topics soon so as not to worry my husband any further.
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