Mom and me have this twisty little joke we tell - it's been going on for as long as I can remember.
When somebody dies, one of us asks "How did he die?"
And the other says "Like this" with an accompanying head tilt/eyes closed thing, feigning death.
It kills (yes, I said it) every time but I guess you really have to be there to appreciate it.
So earlier this week when I told Mom about
The Turd offing himself, she said "So I have to ask - how did he die?"
And it cracked me up completely even though I didn't really feel like laughing.
Humor about death is healthy and absolutely necessary. I think it's why The Big Chill is one of my all-time favorite movies - friends are grieving over an unexpected loss and they deal with it in all kinds of delightfully screwball ways.
Anyhow - I've also been thinking about this whole concept of having respect for the dead. It's taboo to say negative things about dead people. You could probably tell I struggled with it a bit earlier this week.
After Nixon died you would've thought the man was a saint. No "I am not a crook" references, just all the reverence generally afforded an elder statesman. Michael Jackson, same thing. Not a word about the twisted relationships he had with young boys throughout his life. And then there's the recent
MacKenzie Phillips thing. I was at the Oprah Winfrey show where she announced her ten-year long incestuous relationship with her father. And of course the confession sparked outrage over the fact that Papa John couldn't defend himself.
I sat there in the audience thinking, in the words of Stan from South Park, "Dude, this is pretty fucked up right here."
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Hedy, do you and Mom do the jokey death 'like this' thing when EVERYONE dies?
No. This joke is reserved for people who were mere acquaintances and/or relatives we didn't know or like all that well.
Never for close friends/family.
I think I did it when my Aunt Ethel died and it didn't go over too well. Although I laughed like hell.
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If someone is an asshole while they're alive (like The Turd) it oughtta be okay to call him an asshole after he's six feet under.
But HEDY, the asshole isn't around to defend himself. It's not respectful.
BULLSHIT. First of all, what difference does it make if I call someone an asshole, whether they're in the next room or dead? Either way, they're not around to defend themselves. In fact, it's probably worse insulting someone from the next room. At least in that case I'm insulting a real live person who may or may not care about being called an asshole. Dead people don't have feelings.
Second of all, who's bright idea was it that dead people ought to be afforded more respect than the living? If someone wasn't worthy of respect while they were living and breathing, why the fuck should they garner any respect once they're gone? Makes no sense.
But HEDY. You were all Mrs. Compassion earlier this week.
I know, fuck you and shaddap. Seriously. I have the ability to recognize when I'm on the squishy edge of bleeding heart liberal and thankfully I've managed to step out of the goo as this week has progressed.
Okay, I do understand the part about having respect for the people who have lost a loved one - absolutely I understand that. But here's the scoop:
Fact: My former boss was a selfish, insufferable prick. He made life miserable for a lot of people. He knew he was a prick. And he didn't care.
Fact: He was on medication periodically throughout his adult life and
chose not to take it. The meds helped him be a 'normal' person but he wanted no part of it.
Fact: He killed himself in a way that he knew family members would find him.
Fact: I am judging the hell out of him right now and don't really give a fuck.
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One of the single greatest things I've learned at charm school is that we are
obligated to be the best version of ourselves - we owe it to the people around us.
We also owe it to the people we love to expect more out of them. I'm obligated to tell you if you're not making good decisions and I sure as hell hope you'd tell me the same. That's one of the finest definitions of genuine love I can imagine.
The Turd gave up trying to be a worthwhile human being a long time ago and decided if he was going to be miserable, then he might as well make everyone else around him miserable as well.
Bottom line, he needed to die. The world is a much better place without him in it.
There are three kinds of people: Those who make a difference and work hard to be good people. Those who don't really make a difference but don't hurt anyone else and just do their own thing. And then there are those who make it their mission to create havoc and pain wherever they go.
That last group - if they are conscious of their actions like my boss was - should die as quickly and as painfully as possible.
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Okay, enough of that shit. Let's wrap up with Good Things Friday:
Waking up to multiple hoot-owls hooting Monday morning
And yes, they're hoot owls dammit; I'm quite certain there are some owls who eschew the hoo
Spelling owl 'wol' like in Winnie the Pooh
Monday morning - looking out at the misty trees in the backyard just starting to turn
Lunch with Ms. Moo on Monday
Text from Mrs. You Know Who: "Look at the moon!"
Aunt Joy is here for the weekend
Text from Jim, who was in Rome all week: "Exhausted. Six hours in the Vatican."
My response: "Six hours? Were you in confession?"
Shopping with Mrs. YKW on Sunday
Watching Benny & Joon Tuesday night - "You're out of your tree." "It's not my tree."
Email from my friend Wesley from the train: "What else would you do if that [magic] wand really worked?"
My response: "Laundry. Seriously. Just laundry."
Scarf weather
Breakfast for lunch at Yolk on Wells
Unexpectedly seeing someone I hadn't seen in a very long time and smiling about it all day long
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I am listening to: Drops of Jupiter - Train
I am reading: I'm on hiatus from Twilight 4
And I am: Damn glad I'm not dead, like this
