Asher to Ashes

A while ago, I went to see the mummy exhibition at the Leonardo with the Family.  I was excited to explore these phenomena from the ancient past, perhaps enlighten the grandkids and help them understand that mummies are not just zombies wrapped in linen strips who learned their walking technique by watching old Frankenstein movies.

So having re-read “The Mummy Congress” and armed to the dentures with a dazzling array of impressive and indisputable facts, we embarked on our adventure. 

The first question posed, of course, was just how old these mummies are.  With consummate erudition, I explained that some mummies are thousands of years old.  We know that because elaborate scientific data-gathering capability allows us to estimate quite precisely how long ago these people lived.

 I was on a roll, an historical savant smothered in facts and projectile hurling information in an eruption of information that shimmered with radiant splendor.

I moved like a mastodon of fleshy cognition turbocharged with the bulk of lofty expertise and heavily endowed scholarship.

 I was borderline psychokinetic, ready to bend spoons with my bare mind. 

Just as I was about to start packing for a lecture tour of gnostic proportion, our youngest grandson, Asher, asked a question with blunt force trauma that launched me into beast-mode.

He said, “Grandma, who’s older, you or the mummies?”

I winced with the enormity of the inquiry. Is he the product of too much intellectual in-breeding?  I suddenly felt like one of those colossal wild women you see at the fair, with paving-stones hung in their hair. I was so deflated, I became sorely tempted to start dragging my knuckles on the ground…like I did when I was a kid and played with the other Cro-Magnan children!!!

 I began softly muttering inaudibles in immense sepulchral silence. 

Finally, I managed to stammer, “Ash, this is bad math.”  And I hugged him very, very VERY tight  around his dear little neck.

 ( I had a powerful urge to begin double-fisting my go-to antidepressant mood stabilizers – caffeine and chocolate.)

Now, in fairness to the child, Asher IS only five.  I mean, he’s just a kid.  But the question caused my eyes to leap from their sockets.  Does my little tribe think of me as some sort of embalmed Ice Age All-Star that through sheer dumb luck managed to become an evolutionary survivor of Natural Selection, adapting to survive in order to commando crawl through the brambles of grandparenthood?

It’s true that I am a calendar nomad.  I’ve seen some seasons.  But not THAT many. 

Nevertheless, I devised the following litmus test to help my progeny deduce whether or not Grandma is a mummy.  (Holy Hawkeye!  I either need a better moisturizer or a bigger jar of industrial strength  mortician’s putty!)

Anyway, here goes:

1.      Do we need to carbon-date her radioactive isotopes to determine how many millennia ago she was born?  Or is there, perhaps, a document (aka birth certificate) that might have been discovered with the Dead Sea Scrolls?

2.     Has she been repeatedly embalmed, or is that leathery skin merely a natural consequence of evisceration and a dry climate? 

3.     Is that her skin or pre-historic bubble wrap?

4.     Is  Nosferatu a contemporary? Has Tutankamen been invited to her high school reunion?

5.     In spite of millions of years of evolution, does she still share most of her DNA sequence with chimps? 

6.     Can she break cinder blocks with her bare head?

7.     Could the science of reverse engineering help her not to look so genetically challenged?

8.     And finally, if I ask one more question about her age, will Grandma use the momentum from her upper body to rearrange my dental sequence, not to mention her will?

I suppose age is in the eye of the beholder – the younger they are, the older we seem.  But that’s a scary thought.  True, my excessive pasta-bloat causes these “Frankenthighs” to make me look like a refugee   from some primeval beauty pageant.  And other aberrations and anomalies of nature might cause serious distortion in the grandkids’ generational lenses.  I get that.  I remember when my Grandma was mid 50, she seemed really old.  She was.  But that was then.  This is now.  Sixty is the new forty, cellulite the new cleavage, and muffin tops the new love handles.

I guess no one can keep up with the living shadows of their former selves.  I am trying to be one with my wrinkles. 

I’ll rise from the ashes.

But a word to the wise:  Some things can’t be un-said.  And there is zero margin of error.

Never ask grandma if she is older than Mummies…or Moses…or dirt!!!

There are those who question, and those who inherit (Asher being the notable exception.)

In Order to Form a More Perfect Union

It is, in the venerated lyrics of a song from “Camelot,” the “lusty month of May.” 

Spring.  That time when the thoughts of old women lightly turn to thoughts of…reunions.

Planning reunions is daunting.  Ergo, in order to form a more perfect reunion, I devised a survey so everyone could weigh in on the event.

But as I was engineering questions for input, I grew rather contemptuous of my lack of imagination.  True, it was about midnight, and any muse I had was deep in propofol slumber. Still, tedious, stale, insipid queries are BBBOOORRRIIINNNGGG!!!

So since it was late at night, and my discretionary filters had been effectively stuporous, I began to pose questions I thought much more fun, if a little risky.  However, that which seems comical in the wee hours does not always stand up in the withering glare of the morning light.

Nevertheless, I submitted the following questionnaire as a prototype for consideration in eliciting personal information from fellow alumni with the possibility of vilification and/or  future extortion.

NAME

ADDRESS

CELL #  (Having graduated from West High, it becomes imperative to clarify that this 

refers to phones)

ALIASES (AKA’s)  STRICTLY OPTIONAL

Do you recall the year we graduated and why we’re having this reunion?  Yes___ 

No___Don’t give a d.__

LOCATION:  fancy restaurant, hamburger joint, holding cell, rehab facility, psych ward, 

hospice center, etc.

PROGRAM:  i.e. prizes for the most grandchildren, greatest nostril re-forestration, bluest varicose veins, most distinguished moustache created entirely of nasal hair, greatest number of joint replacements (may include hips, knees, nose and hammer toes), organ removals, most dramatic comb-over with least amount of strands,  deepest hairline recession with male-pattern baldness, ( Sadly, this is not necessarily restricted to the men), most dermatological procedures (you may count wart removal along with geographical location, skin tags, and fleshy out-growths of dubious origin not intended in the Creator’s original engineering blueprint, the greatest bat-wing spread from excessive arm flab, (ladies only), and the most embarrassing body issues.

BIOGRAPHICAL BOOK?  Including catalogue of surgeries and tooth extractions, list of current medications, number of daily naps required before bedtime, number of hearing aids, dentures, bifocals, and weekly doctor appointments.  This information may include, but is not restricted to, self-incrimination, assumed identities, stints in the witness protection program, crimes and misdemeanors, etc.

MEMORY PROMPTORS:  Do you recall Don Carlos, Mednick’s, Auerbach’s, Kress hot dogs, Luigi’s pizza, Fendall’s ice cream, West High Bakery, Paul’s Perky Panther, and the seasonal rumbles in the parking lot after football games and athletic events?

Would you be willing to search for class mates who have successfully slipped through the dragnet of the Reunion Mafia?  Yes___ No___ I’d rather gag myself on old pom poms____

Do you have any classic (antique) items you would consider providing for a memorabilia table, such as old dance cards, photo albums, pep club pit pads, letter jackets, mug shots, treasures of truth, brass knuckles, vintage arrest warrants, former or current rap sheets, handbook of harsh language, etc.?

Would you be willing to share your favorite recipes concocted with fermaldahyde and pablum as the main ingredients?  Geriatric dating sites?  Plastic surgeons?  Orthopedic specialists?  Best places to purchase “Depends” in bulk?

MISC.

1.      Do you have hopes Elvis is still alive somewhere?

2.     What do you know now that you didn’t know then?  (Caution.  Deploy filters now!)

3.     What did you know then that you don’t know now?

4.     How often do you have to tweeze your face before going out into polite society?

5.     Can you define “pud?”

Due to early on-set dementia and aggravated memory loss, what happens at the reunion, stays at the reunion.  So feel free to spill your guts or whatever else that might leak from any orifice.  It ain’t goin’ nowhere!

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Getting together with old friends is so fun.  Getting together with a daughter is even better. 

Saturday night I went with Brodi to the Whitney Awards Gala.  It was held in Provo.  It is named in honor of Orson F. Whitney, an early Utah leader who proclaimed “we will yet raise Miltons and Shakespeares of our own.”  The awards celebrate the literary talents and contributions of LDS writers who represent  creative authenticity and personal integrity. 

Brodi was one of five nominated for book of the year. 

Of course, I was thrilled.   And since I had just been to a luncheon, I was already decked out in my favorite jeans and flip-flops when she came to pick me up.

Brodi did not appear to have any delusions about winning the award, but was well aware what an honor this nomination was.

When we arrived, I saw a ballroom full of people in tuxes, fancy dresses and spanx.  I stood there in levis, mortified. It was a code one moment. I said, “Brodi!  Why didn’t you tell me this was a formal affair?”  She said, “What part of ‘gala’ didn’t you understand?”

Oh suuurrrre.  Blame the victim!  It’s always MY fault!  But she didn’t seem embarrassed, and assured me that the chances of her winning were slim.  She suggested that if I just slid my lower quadrant under the table cloth and draped a napkin across my lap, perhaps other guests would simply assume I had a fettish for formal attire that resembled tablecloths monogrammed with the Marriott Hotel logo.  Nobody gets hurt.

Well, that worked for me.  I shrouded myself in the linen burqa and began eating dinner, in spite of my flagrant fashion faux pas.

Soon the awards ceremony commenced.  And when they announced the winner of her category, Brodi’s name was called.  Someone from our table gave a squeal muffled by her mummy wrap.  She went to the microphone, charmingly disheveled, and spoke extemporaneously and eloquently.

Brodi proclaimed that if she thought she would be at the podium, she would have put on more deodorant! Her colleagues laughed. So did I. I thought that was a great beginning.  I wasn’t exactly sure where she would go from there.

But then Brodi asked me to stand, which required untangling quivering thigh cellulite from layers of hotel linen.  She held up the beautiful, engraved crystal award and said, “Happy Mother’s Day, Mom!”  And then she did something quite remarkable.  She dedicated this honor “to someone who is present, but not in attendance – my Dad.”  She received quite an ovation. 

My eyes began to sweat profusely.

I learned so much this day.  First of all, it’s not about the jeans.  Dishevelment has its privileges.   But I’ll never again attend a “gala” without bringing along plenty of deodorant.

 I have heard it said, “Life is not a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming, ‘WOW!’”

Old Friends, Orson Whitney, and being with Brodi…that formed the most perfect union. 

WOW!

When Lilacs Last

It’s lilac time.  It’s spring.  Again.  There is a genial symmetry to the earth’s rotation.  I keep track of such things.

I have always loved lilacs.  Poets and florists claim they represent the “first emotions of love.”  I don’t know about that, but I do know that one cannot look at the delicate blossoms and not be cheered.

I always pick lilacs, in spite of fervent vows to refrain from temptation, and society’s prohibitions against violating private property.  They usually belong on the bushes of neighbors foolish enough to sleep past 4:00 a.m., thus exposing their shrubs to the felonious whimsy of Local Insomniacs.

Lilacs in a vase quiet the house with their scent and calm the world after the ravages of winter.  But they are only granted a two-week stay, so time cannot be squandered with personal integrity by limiting one’s acquisition of them.  Besides, universal laws of accountability are suspended during lilac time.

T. S. Eliot proclaimed April  the cruelest month.  Charles Dickins wrote, “It was the best of times.  It was the worst of times.”  I suppose both authors bear witness that life is bi-polar. Duly noted. Mortality, it seems, is comprised for the most part of ironic juxtapositions. There is so much to celebrate, even though our burdens have not been unprotested.

Lilac time is fleeting.  Tempus fugit.  If we don’t want to lose our corridor of understanding, we must express our love mostly in short, declarative sentences that leave no doubt as to the content of our hearts.  Lilac time runs contrary to the longer, more languid growing seasons of other flowers that allow one to be vague.

Lilacs insist that we sanctify our lives.

Dennis was cured  just a year ago, as  lilacs bloomed.  I will experience the anniversary.  In my personal corridor of understanding, I have been taught things that swallow any prior knowledge.  Painful stuff happens to everyone, and sometimes we stagger and stumble under the weight of it all.  But wisdom comes through the grace of pain, healing from courage, dignity from enduring.

Lilacs instruct us to be of good cheer, to be strong and competent.  Theirs is a fragrance of hope.

Sometimes it is good to shut off the mind, allow a greater power to take over, and heal.  There is a place within to stand as witness, to change direction toward greater tranquility, stability, calm, peace.  The  soul can restore itself, and go forward.

Dennis and I were never ones to give flowers.  It seemed unnecessary. I will make an exception on Friday.  They will be lilacs.

Go, Granny, Go!

I’m resting.  I’m tired.  Stupid with fatigue.  I have exceeded my aerobic threshold.  I just hobbled to my recliner and collapsed, gasping and wheezing.  Why?  Because our first-born, extraordinarily gifted and adorable grandson spent the weekend with me…by choice!  For reasons unavailable to mortal man, Abram asked to stay with me instead of his friend, while his parents went to Las Vegas for a soccer tournament.

Whoa!  Could that really be???  He would prefer to stay with me than a comrade, a soccer teammate, a fellow pre-pubescent, a “bro” without benefit of duress or Guido the Thumbbreaker?

YESSSS!!!!!  The Baby Boomer and the Millennial – it is so counterintuitive to the generational adversarial tribal system that has evolved through the epochs since time immemorial between really old people and the majestically young.  It defies the natural order of the species. But it works!

Needless to say, I was thrilled.  I want to be more than a cameo in our grandchildren’s lives.

I hate to get all Sally Fields-ish, but he likes me.  He REALLY LIKES ME!

There is something about the first-born grandchild. When Abram was born, I sang “Happy Birthday,” while Dennis performed the circumcision.  For one brief shining moment, I was the favorite grandparent. 

When the rites of being a male were accomplished, we began to scrutinize and identify all the conspicuous characteristics and personality traits resulting from generations of genetic distillation.  Abram is so like Dennis, in temperament and demeanor.  He is quiet, confident, composed, and endearingly charming.  He stole my heart.

However, I am also a primary DNA contributor to this boy.  Abram and I are startlingly similar.  We are both fair.  He is legally blonde.  I am feloniously platinum.  We are both tall and lean…except for me.  He is without guile.  I have ample for both of us.  He has the courage of his convictions.  I am obstinate.  It’s practically the same.  With only a few inconsequential differences, we are nearly indistinguishable.

In order to transform myself into a geriatric savant of biped recreation, I embarked on a rigorous training program.  My goal was to become a cruise missile, a whirling turbine of forward thrust, turbocharged locomotion.  This endeavor sucked up an enormous amount of caloric intake.

I commenced my training regime by upping my caffeine quota.  And then I began rehearsing what I hoped to be the “mother tongue,” my apocalypsie cliches:

Boo Yeah!  In Yo Face!  Sup?

And I diligently practiced my texting shorthand:  YOLO, Luv u 2, etc.

Next, I ditched every shred of evidence of my personal CD collection – which is comprised mostly of Billy Joel, Elton John, The Beatles, James Taylor and…wait for it…Johnny Mathis! (That last one went into its own unmarked brown paper bag.)  Apparently, CD’s are not only obsolete, they’re archaic. 

I then enrolled in classes ranging from Adele 101, Basic Mumford and Sons, Fundamental “One Direction,” Beginning Beyonce, British Boy Bands for Dummies, and Remedial Taylor Swift.  I even committed some of her poetic and extremely cerebral lyrics to memory, so I could warble the words off my tongue in admirable fluency, without any trace of cognitive brain function:  “We’re never ever ever getting back together.”  (Inevitably, my rendition is over-loaded with excessive “never-evers.”  Abram smiles indulgently and says nothing, extending diplomatic courtesy like his grandpa before him.)

I used copious amounts of concealer to mitigate the ravages of time that turn the once-silky skin to that mottled pinkish hue I refer to as Gram Spam – in order to perpetuate the illusion that I’m smothered in muscle and prefer stilettoes to orthopedic smurf shoes.

For good measure, I fired up the Crossfire, put down the top, and we motored to his soccer game at a cruising speed of just under 65 m.p.h., which is slightly faster than “the little old lady from Pasadena” velocity.  (It is decidedly UN-cool to get a ticket for adolescent acceleration!)  I drove amid swirling wind that billowed my hair and swaddled my head in a halo of platinum and re-growth, revealing the sad fact that Granny has a dark side, and shattering forever more the myth that I’m a natural tow-head.

It requires astronomical energy to disavow reality.

I had a grandmother whose influence is still enormously powerful.  I adored her, and in my mind, I still flee to her home when I need refuge and sanctuary.  I want to repeat that experience for my grandchildren.  I guess it’s a patrilineal phenomenon, and assures smooth succession from one generation to the next.

Abram and I talked.  About a lot of things.  It was good.  It is essential to tell the stories of our lineage, like tribal griots, so the youth can make sense of our world and give it order.

Mortality is fragile.  Our essence is what we give the world by our presence.

When the weekend was over, and the time came for Abram to return to his home, I was understandably reluctant.  It’s mysterious how comfort arrives.  Each grandchild has a portion of Dennis.  It’s a gift.  Abram is particularly endowed. He is so like his grandfather. I try not to stare.  I rarely succeed.

As he got out of the car, he said, “Love you, Grandma.”  He always does.  I said, “Love you, too.”  He said again, “Love you, Grandma.”  I said, “Love you, Bud.”  Once more he said, “I love you, Grandma.”  I said, “I love you, Abram.” 

I stood vigil till he was safely in the house.  Then I drove home. 

I was glad it was dark.

March 15th

 

The Ides of March are usually tightly bookended between Lent and Lilac Time, but they always fall on March 15^th.  History records this particular date as the day Julius Caesar disregarded the warning of the soothsayer and went to the Senate in spite of the universe being out of alignment.  Most unwise. Mrs. Caesar had also advised him against venturing out.  She pleaded with him to stay home that day, no doubt hoping she could get a little help with household chores…to no avail.  Even unwiser.  Julius!  Dude!  What were you thinkin’?

March 15^th is also our anniversary.  I do not plan to stay home OR go to the senate. I may simply hold my own conclave – reminisce, ponder.  I won’t count the seasons, just the blessings.  There is a certain patina that comes with the passage of time.  I’ll find what I need in reflection. 

It is true that what is essential is invisible to the eye.   

Erin, Brodi and I will be together. I‘ll tell the stories of the events, circumstances and alignments that culminated in their mortality. We will acknowledge the anniversary, honor the day, and reverence the occasion in peace and some sadness.  No doubt there will be moments when we just let it hurt.

It seems like all the past has been preparation for the present.  Now our union lives on in me.  I am us.  I am our voice.  I will express our love, bear our witness and be glad.

Erin admonished me to keep my back straight and my head up.  With wisdom like that, who needs soothsayers?

Joan-Uh and the Whale

Some friends and I recently did something we’ve been threatening to do for years – we went to Hawaii.  We decided that since we’re not getting any younger, (a phantom reversal process known as “youth-enizing”) we should embark on this odyssey while we can still rock our thong bikinis.

As luck would have it, my friend’s family owns a condo and a boat in Kona, so our accommodations were provided.  Our task, which we happily accepted, was simply to arrive.  No problem.

Upon arrival, it took a while for my carcass to adjust to time and climate changes.  My circadian rhythm was in deep hibernation, and at 3:00 a.m. I would awake ready for my luau.  I was forced to sit in the dark in my grass skirt and lei waiting three more hours for the dawn to arrive.  Mornings come very late in Hawaii.

By the time the sun finally rose, I was famished, and, desperate for supper, roamed the streets and beaches shrieking, “KILL THE FATTED BUFFALO!  WOMAN WANTS MEAT!”  (Now I understand why native Hawaiians call us “Howlies.”)

 Saturday the agenda called for us to sail the ocean blue and do a little deep-sea fishing on my friend’s boat.  Now, I had envisioned a “Gilligan-esque” three-hour tour on the SS Minnow.  Perhaps a dinghy with an Evinrude and some oars. Boy Howdy! Was I mistaken!  This was not a “boat.”  This was an ark…a whole lotta cubits by a whole lotta cubits!  It came with a captain, a first mate, and 5 (count ‘em) FIVE fishing rods that stood like telephone poles around the vessel. 

Stunned, and in my usual state of unfiltered thought, I exclaimed, “Whoa!  How big are your worms?” 

Bill, the captain, said, diplomatically, “You must be Joan.” 

Bill explained that the bait of choice was lures, since the fish hooks are so large they’d need worms the size of pythons.  OK.  Roger that.  I like Bill.

This sailing vessel is a 50-foot Hatteras worthy of Ernest Hemingway named Pacific Blue, and celebrities like Dustin Hoffman charter it for obscene fees to have adventures on the high seas.

The water that morning was calm and smooth, which prevented the threat of nausea, and we spotted multiple “blows,” indicating pods of whales in the water.  They were magnificent.  It was inspiring to watch mother whales bump their calves to the surface for air.  I felt privileged.

However, I became concerned that we might inadvertently hook one of these behemoths and consequently become the victims of a “revenge swallowing,” like the Biblical morality tale we learned as children to scare us into good behavior.  The thought of being slowly digested by the juices of the gastroenterological system of a mammoth orca and ending up as fecal matter in the Pacific is enough to alter anyone’s behavior pattern.

But Bill reassured me that the probability of catching anything at all was extremely remote, so I should just relax… and start chumming.  I think he was being facetious.  I like Bill.

On the off-chance that we should actually catch a fish, Bill sat me in the “fighting chair” so I could practice and become familiar with how it works.  But I know all about fighting chairs.  After all, I’m a mother.  I’ve raised two daughters through puberty. I’m a veteran. Besides, I watch old re-runs of “Jaws.”  I was prepared for anything the ocean threw at me. 

 

Necessity being the mother of invention, I asked Bill if M&M’s would qualify as authentic bait.  I’d brought a large bag for recreational consumption, and I found them enormously alluring.  Perhaps chocolate would attract fish with similar addictions.  Bill said, “Why not?”

No sooner had I cast my candy upon the waters, than there was a tug on the center pole, and the line whirred as it began to unwind.  Bill got me in the fighting chair and yelled, “Start reeling!”

I was right in the middle of my “Aye aye, Cap’n!” when the fish gave a mighty heave, and nearly yanked me out of the chair.  My life flashed before me, (Oh, so many regrets) and I saw a momentary image of my obituary with the mafia motto captioned beneath my photo: “And now she sleeps with the fishes.” I had visions of being over-powered by an ancient marine leviathan and condemned to wandering the great Pacific eternally lashed to the side of a rogue fish, tethered by the seat belt of my fighting chair, clutching a bag of peanut M&M’s, my free arm mindlessly beckoning. Not exactly the stuff of Hemingway. It gave me the bends just thinking about it.

But Tobin was able to strap me into the chair before I went overboard, and the battle between the Old Woman and the Sea began in earnest.

Perhaps it was my imagination, but I thought I heard John Williams’ “Jaws” score pulsing in the background:

Duuuuuh – duh!

Duuuuuh – duh!

Duh duh duh duh/

Duh duh duh duh/

Duh duh duh duh duh duh duh duh

This titanic struggle lasted quite a while, and required the agility of a Chinese acrobat. The beast was huge and as determined as I was. Two gladiators going mono a mono with so much at stake.

 I hollered to Bill, “We need a bigger boat!”

He said, “Just keep reeling!”

I shouted, “It’s a great white!  Get me an oxygen tank and a rifle!”

He said, “Just keep reeling.”

(I like Bill, but he has no sense of drama)

Finally, at the conclusion of this epic tug-of-war that will no doubt go down in the annals of history as the stuff of legends, just like Ahab and the whale, I landed the colossus…with a little help from my friends.  As a gesture to a worthy opponent, I suggested we catch and release, but Bill said, “Are you kidding?  This is a mahi mahi – that’s not puppy chow.  These things are delicious.”

 

A mahi-mahi?  Are you sure it’s not a marlin?  Bill reiterated that it was an average mahi-mahi.  But in my eyes, it was EXCEEDINGLY average, which adds to the perceived body mass.  I thought it was large enough to qualify as a mahi-mahi-mahi.  Bill conceded.

I did a victory lap to the front of the boat, threw out my arms, and yelled “I’M KING OF THE WORLD!”  I was about to dance the “Harlem shake,” and spike my fishing pole on the poop deck, but modesty kept me from being cited for excessive celebration in the crow’s nest.

It is my personal code of ethics never to eat those I’ve vanquished, so I gave the fish to Bill and Tobin.

I have decided to retire my fishing poles and hang up my lures.  I will become a fisher emeritus.  There’s nothing left to prove.

I shall be telling this with a sigh somewhere ages and ages hence.

Dennis always taught me to be optimistic.  When hunting whales, (metaphorically speaking), be positive, expect success, and take along plenty of tartar sauce.

 I did.

He and Hemingway would be proud.

Be Prepared

Recently, as a friend and I were massaging mashed bananas into our hair, (uh, don’t ask), she told me she had selected the photograph she wanted for her obituary.

Well, I was a little taken aback, and as we arranged plastic shower caps around the pond scum, (I don’t want to talk about it), she showed me a series of pictures she’d had done a few years back.  I have to admit, they were lovely.  My friend has always been pretty, and these glamour shots made her look even lovelier.

To tell the truth, I’ve never given much thought to my obituary.  After all, I reasoned, we’ll be dead.  What do WE care?

But she explained that she wasn’t sure she could count on her survivors to select the most flattering photo, so she was making the decision herself. 

Hmmm.  There was a certain mutant logic to the argument.

When we began attracting clusters of fruit flies by our over-ripe fruity smell, it was time to wash the pungent banana mash from our scalps, and I went home, not thinking much more about it.

However, coincidentally, in the mail that very day was a cemetery planning survey asking questions about my age, my general appearance, if I had cirrhosis of the toenails, yellowing fungus anywhere visible, furry nostrils, and whether my skin was mottled, intricately patterned with spider veins, and/or corrugated.  As a post script, they added a solicitation for permission to harvest any hearing aids I now own or may purchase in the future.  Their sales pitch centered on my peace of mind and a gala celebration for those “dear ones left behind.”

WHAT???!!!

The vultures!

What is this sudden obsession with my morbidity?  Now, I believe in being prepared, but this is absurd.  I’ll be dead.  WHAT DOES IT MATTER???

And then...I began to think about it.

And then…it began to matter.

HMMM.  Do I trust MY survivors to make the very best decisions regarding my obit and its accompanying picture under circumstances of extreme stress and unrequited grief?

 I think not.

So I decided to take matters into my own hands.  I ransacked old scrapbooks for any photographs that might be suitable for publication, but my candids always catch me in a half blink that makes me look like I’m just emerging from a drug-induced stupor.  And my mouth is inevitably half open like I’m mid-belch prior to the eruption of a second round of projectile hurling.

Of course, it’s a little late at this point to obtain retro  glamour photography without a whole lotta photoshopping and some cosmic intervention.  So I called my friend and asked if I could borrow one of her glamour shots.  I mean, how many does she need anyway? Besides, we’re both blond. No one will notice.  She said I could have the pick of the litter. 

I selected the one with the turned up collar and the jaunty pink cowboy hat.  She said that would be fine, since she is using the shot with the feathery boa and the long pearls. (I never could do boas.)

So her picture, along with a close-up of Michelle Pfeiffer, is safely tucked away in a box marked “Obit File…to be used only with extreme discretion.”  I figure my girls can choose the image they want to submit to the paper when the time comes.

Ahhhh.  That was a good thing done.  I had those few moments of peace of mind promised by the Grim Reaper brochures.

  And then, by virtue of linear reasoning, I began ruminating about the actual obituary content.  There are some things one simply does not want revealed.  Like my stint in rehab for harsh language aversion therapy, or being involuntarily hospitalized for the criminally inane.

Now, I’m not accusing the girls of dubious journalistic integrity.  There are, after all, generational differences, aberrant humor, and the pay-back phenomenon.  But knowing the basic rule of precedence…the survivors write the history…I have decided to write my own memorial, myopically but objectively, so I can tell my own tale without it being distorted by truth or honesty.

Besides, I know Erin and Brodi.  They would no doubt sit around the kitchen table, as we have done so often, share stories, and laugh themselves stuporous, claiming, “Mom aged out at the Richard Simmons Memorial Museum, forming spit bubbles and muttering alliterative soliloquys to no one in particular.

More laughter. 

They would claim I demonstrated admirable creative numerical license as a “born again Boomer” with an adjustable birth date unsubstantianted by fact, forensics, or carbon dating.

I can hear it now.

They might announce that their mother was a fossil, not the Missing Link, and think it a compliment; that through sheer dumb luck, she escaped being “Teo’ed” because she didn’t know the difference between catfish and trout; and that she was forever empowered by mascara and stiletoes.

Words like “smokin’,” and “smolderin’,” would be glaringly omitted, but “disproportionate glutinous downward migration,” and “severe torso deprivation” would send them into further eruptions of sustained merriment.

Now, I don’t want to be arrested by the Modesty Squad, but here’s how I want my obit to read:  “She succumbed after enduring a lifetime of outrageous intelligence syndrome.  She was afflicted by severe Dick Cheney revulsion, but was a devout Rafa Nadal enthusiast.  She bore her unmistakable resemblance to Kate Upton with grace and dignity, never complaining.

She was on a first-name basis with Stephen Hawking, and demonstrated remarkable patience when swarmed by rabid fans mistaking her for Diane Sawyer.

Suspicions of delusions of grandeur are suspect and highly exaggerated.”

It is good to be prepared.  However, no amount of planning can anticipate every contingency.

But if, when perusing the obit section of the newspaper, you notice a particularly attractive, young and vibrant photograph, read the article.  It may be announcing services for either Michelle Pfeiffer, an adorable cowgirl, or me.  But what does it matter?  We’re all one and the same.