When my dad died
it was fcuked up all around. I was informed by telephone he had died, but I had just come from serving at a funeral at church. I thought my sister in law was talking about that Richard instead of my dad Richard and I managed to be completely snarky with "Who the hell cares?" Since I was serving tea and cake, it took me a while to clean up the church hall. I came out much later to the car park to find a ticket on the windshield. Thanks.

Then my 4 brothers told me I couldn't be a pallbearer but my brother's best friends could. This led to a huge shouty feminist fit and bad feelings all around. My stepmother picked a coffin so small (he weighed 350 lbs) his elbows were shoved up onto his tummy and we had to piss and moan to get the right size. Then at the viewing (do you have viewing in the UK? The body sits at the funeral home for hours and friends and relatives come by to look at each other and make awkward conversation. It's boring and/or nasty) my half aunt by marriage who loves to be the center of attention made a big fuss about his colouring. This resulted in pancake makeup smeared so thickly over his face it caked in his hair. He looked awful. Thanks.

My mom tried to be gracious to my stepmother but they were icily snarky to each other. It took eight of us to carry him and I stupidly wore high heels to the wet graveside. I stumbled and thought we might drop the coffin. Thanks.

And the very best is that despite my father's assurances "all you kids will be well taken care of; there's quite a tidy sum tucked away when I die" none of us have heard a peep from my stepmother about a will or any inheritance. She's told us she'll give our 100 year old family home to her spendthrift son. Thanks.
(TDub Nunc id vides, nunc ne vides on, Fri 12 May 2006, 23:46, Reply)