As I was getting dressed this morning I looked through all my black clothes and I came across my “I’m blogging this” shirt and contemplated wearing it to my grandfathers funeral for about five minutes. I mean, it is funeral standard black and I am clearly blogging about the event right now, so why not advertise while I’m at it? Then I remembered that I really adore my “I’m blogging this” shirt and wearing it to my grandfathers funeral would deem it un-wearable in the future because of the memories that would be attached to it… That and my mother would kill me. So I picked a pair of black pants, a simple black top and my ouchie shoes (uncomfortable black shoes that I never wear), I would later spend 3 hours swearing at said ouchie shoes for being just so fucking uncomfortable. I was ready to mourn.
We arrived and were greeted by the funeral director who was as quiet as a mouse, I don’t understand why funeral directors always say “sorry for you loss” it reminds me of hookers in Thailand who say “me love you long time” and don’t mean any of it.
It was a lovely service, my favourite part was when he said “he was a armchair sportsman” about my grandfather, it made us all laugh and kept things light hearted, which is what he wanted. I kept thinking all through the service about how when I was little I used to cut his hair – with imaginary scissors of course – I would make idle chit chat about the weather and cut away with my fingers. I couldn’t believe he is really gone.
One of my mum’s many cousins (my grandfather had 11 sisters and brothers) came up to me after the service, she grabbed me and proceeded to squeeze every bit of air out of me while saying “he was a great man your pop”, I was thinking “who are you?” I hardly knew any of his family; there are just so bloody many of them that it’s hard to keep track of them all.
Here is my kit to get through a funeral…
- Panadol – For headachy badness.
- Excuses – As to why you haven’t rung aunt what’s-her-face in years.
- Tissues – Rent a truck and fill it with boxes of tissues, better yet, rent a plane to drop them from the sky.
- Umbrella – Because it always fucking rains.
- A confused look – To be used when your mothers cousin grabs you and starts shaking you while saying “you’ve grown up”. Well, yes, people tend to do that.
As we were driving home my mum said “how much do you think the funeral director gets paid?” To which I replied “I’m not sure”, she then started talking out loud to herself, “It would be quite a nice job” she informed herself. She kept pondering and finally said “I think that would be a good job for me”.
Leave it to my mum to think about future job possibilities at a funeral.
Kitta.net 