Back from a blogging hiatus, to the relief of all, Twisty Faster of I Blame the Patriarchy has recently descended from the mountains to share morsels of her radical feminist blame-age with us starving little people. Now, I don't always agree with Twisty (I'm not sure my patriarchy-blaming skills are advanced enough), but her writing is always incredibly witty and awesome. But aaannnyway, Twisty's father died a while back, and her account of the whole funeral business is, well, hilarious. On the funeral home:
You wouldn’t believe this joint. It was like the set designers from Twin Peaks and Napoleon Dynamite had fused with Elvis Presley’s interior decorator and been reborn as Liberace’s angst-ridden evil twin, who then suffered a psychotic break, and bought up the world’s supply of harvest gold flocked wallpaper, brass upholstery tacks, and fake oak paneling, and ate it all with fava beans and a nice Chianti, and then puked it up all over the living room from Sartre’s No Exit.OMG. Twisty goes on to tell us how she almost died laughing after retrieving her father's urn from a touched-by-an-angel type spotlight display. (In Irish accent: "I'm an angel sent from God, and you can only see this light shining on me when I say those magic words. Also, I may strangle this dove at any moment. P.S. Skunkhair is the best angel mentor evah!") Anyway, this outburst of inappropriate laughter reminded me of my immediate family's inability to act with proper decorum the summer two of my grandparents died. But you know what, that's how we deal. We gather together in the foyer and make jokes instead of crying and hugging. When we pulled into the church parking lot at my grandpa's funeral and the hearse was there, my mom said, "Dad's here!" Because she is crazy and because that's what we do. Like when my oldest brother broke his head trying to jump bikes in his culdesac (at age 24, mind you), and once we knew he wasn't going to die, his roommate, my mom, other brother, and I made jokes about things we could do to trick him when he woke up in the hospital. His girlfriend was crying. It didn't work out between them.
Making the jokies is such a good way to fend off the pain. Because you know what, I don't want anyone to see me that way, I like to save the tears for private depression time. And as long as you can still laugh, you can convince yourself that everything's okay. Often it is not okay, but denial is a very effective tool. However, let me tell you a little story about denial: eventually you do have to deal. It always catches up with you: Grandma's still gone, your relationship is ending, you do hate your job, those pants have never looked good on you, etc. Of course, people who are not emotionally retarded realize this. Not that I know anyone like that. Anyway, what I'm saying is, is that sarcasm is a good way to stave off real emotions while in public or until you're ready to deal with them. Luckily, nothing bad ever happens to me, so I don't really need to use sarcasm in this way. Haha.