Look! I found another blog post I wrote at least a year ago and never published! It’s like Christmas in October, but not on the Hallmark Channel! Cheers!
There is something deeply unsettling about realizing that if you were asked the age-old question about what you would take with you if you knew you were going to be stuck on a desert island, your answer is – immediately and without hesitation – toilet paper and ginger ale. And that if you had to choose just one, you’d be hard-pressed to choose between the two. I used to think that I’d choose a book, or maybe some sort of lip balm, since I’m hopelessly addicted to both.
But when you spend an entire week with your head hanging over a toilet puking up the entire contents of your stomach – including blood (no, I didn’t go to the hospital, and no, it wasn’t really that much blood, and yes, I know it was blood and I know why I’m puking it up) – and then you spend that same amount of time again in the bathroom (I’ll spare you the details) continuing to be sick for no other reason than your DNA structure, you start figuring out what your simplest priorities are.
And mine, sadly, are toilet paper and ginger ale. Those are my needs.
I’d prefer if said ginger ale came in canned form, and while I do have a particular brand I prefer, any made with real ginger would do. I figure with as much of it as I have to drink, I could use the cans structurally once they’re empty, weighing them down with sand so they’re more stable. I have plenty of time to think of these things in weeks and months like this.
For example, I’ve decided that when I die and my funeral is planned, I don’t want flowers on my casket. Everyone does that, and it’s predictable. I want a party, dang it. And everyone knows that at parties, there are balloons. That’s right, balloons. Multi-colored ones. The hubs would tell you my favorite color is Roy G Biv, and I expect my funeral to live up to the occasion (pun completely intended).
Instead of flowers and that weird apparatus they use to lower (drop) the casket into the grave, I want a ginormous bunch of multi-colored balloons tied to each corner of my coffin and then a bunch in the middle on each side – basically every place there would be a pall bearer. I will be weirdly levitated from funeral service to grave (which is quite considerate, I think, as it takes the weight off the pall bearers – my final act of selflessness). When it’s time for the family to “throw their flower,” I want each person at the funeral to take a balloon from alternating locations on the box, so that my remains are slowly and awkwardly lowered into the ground. The beauty of this is that (a) it is irrevocably strange and uncomfortable, and (b) there is guaranteed to be comedy, because eventually, the weight of the casket will overcome the force of the balloons, and I’m bound to drop crookedly and suddenly into the pit that will be my body’s final resting place.
And if you don’t think that’s funny, you’re probably already dead.
Seriously, picture it: a bright but overcast day, a slight drizzle – even a misty fog – shrouding everything in sight. All five of my friends gathered with my husband and family, reliving their favorite moments shared with me: baking chocolate chip cookies, arguing with my brothers who always wanted to be right but never were, the way they would call or text and not receive a response for days because I didn’t check my phone regularly and couldn’t be counted on to watch for social media notifications (true story), and so on. The preacher closes with a prayer, and one by one, the gathering steps up to a gleaming mahogany casket surrounded by a halo of balloons that would put all the birthday parties up to that point to shame. Everyone gets to take one balloon from the bunches, making their way around the perimeter like a twisted game of Duck-Duck-Goose. (And you only get one balloon – if you let yours go and it floats to the sky, well, that will teach you to hang on to the things that matter, won’t it? You never know when they’ll float into the ether.)
Slowly, the casket drops into the grave, completely unbalanced and with a lurching, drunken sway, to be honest. This probably wasn’t a good idea, someone will whisper. I know, someone else will agree, but it’s what she wanted.
Suddenly, the groan and creak of the box accompanied by the hissing, disconcerting sound of its contents (me) shifting to one end. Gravity overtakes helium. I make one final, crash landing into the abyss!
YES! And totally worth it.
I’m not 100% sold on everyone taking a single balloon. We could make this far more interesting and turn it into one of those carnival dart games where everyone gets three chances to pop a balloon. We just have to make sure someone is there to officiate – the game, not the funeral – and clear the other side of the casket to avoid injuries. People shouldn’t have to worry about getting hurt at a funeral, you know.
Anyhow, that’s what I’ve decided I want instead of the usual wake. I feel like that’s fair if I have to spend so much time locked in a 3 x 5 room staring at porcelain only to spend all the time after my time in an even smaller space lined with satin. (Whose idea was satin, by the way? Of all the non-breathable, expensive, impractical fabrics out there, we thought the underlining of a 1960s prom dress was classy and appropriate for the afterlife? Really? How ’bout some good old fashioned cotton or linen, like the Egyptians? They figured out mummification pretty well – I can’t see how satin is an improvement.)
Meanwhile, though, I won’t be planning a trip to any desert islands in the near future. I don’t think banana leaves and palm fronds are a good alternative to Cottonelle. I also don’t know how to make my own ginger ale and I honestly don’t know if ginger is native to desert islands – probably not, if I had to guess. Otherwise, why would Canada lay claim to it?