I've decided to put my funeral plans down on paper because I don't trust my husband to plan my final party. If it's anything like the other things we've put together, he'll wait until three hours before the calling hours start and, overwhelmed with all that he failed to do to prepare, will decide to paint the garage door.
"I've been meaning to get to this for months," he'll say to the stunned mourners as they arrive with casseroles.
I'm not making this up. We used to have a big pool party every summer when we lived in New Jersey. I would spend a week shopping and cooking, cleaning the house inside and out, prepping the pool, making practice margaritas, borrowing all the plasticware I could get my hands on, and blowing up inflatable toys. Every year, the thing people remembered most was the Wet Paint sign on the garage door. I'm not saying he was avoiding the work of throwing a party, but I will say this: He wasn't not avoiding the work of throwing a party.
So I'm putting my funeral party plans out there so we can have a quality shindig. Everyone should know his or her responsibilities. While my husband is rooting through old paint cans in the basement, my sisters can come in and start checking things off the list. They aren't the only ones with duties around my death. But they have the early shift, since their number one job is to prevent my husband from throwing out all of my cool stuff. We're talking about a Billy Beer can, people. A Geraldine Ferraro for Vice President campaign button. Snapshots from my Brownie camera of white fringe streaming from what could be Bobby Sherman's arm on the Idora Park Ballroom stage (or potentially streaks of snot from the girl next to us, who was crying her head off during Julie, Julie, Julie Do You Love Me?). This is good stuff I'm talking about.
My husband disagrees. So while he is procrastinating on the funeral plans and making trips to Home Depot, he is very likely to take time to haul all of my cool stuff out to the curb. My sisters have instructions to sweep in fast before the onset of rigor mortis and the Sunset Scavenger truck.
My friends Diane, Barb and Lisa are in charge of picking out my outfit. I don't know what the current trend in coffin couture is these days, but I can count on those three to put me in something flattering. I could never figure out why women in the '60s were buried in outfits that looked so much like what their daughters wore to prom. Was it an Easter maxi dress? A fairy costume? Or was it the most uncomfortable nightgown in history? Nothing like that, please, ladies. My "good jeans" (don't worry about the belt. I think they'll stay up this once) and my Mama Needs a Cocktail t-shirt would be fun. Or the gown I wore to the White House Correspondents' Dinner, since you can cover up the mud-stained hem with a spray of white roses and a satin banner that sparkles MOTHER. I was thinking of doing that anyway.
My sisters-in-law can take care of the food. A Pittsburgh-style cookie table would be nice. Cupcakes would be great. Fudge. A cheesy broccoli rice casserole. Something with Jell-O. Use your own judgment. You know how to feed a crowd better than anyone, and you know the people coming to my funeral are going to expect a decent meal. They've heard all about our family gatherings. Which reminds me: Shrimp cocktail.
My kids can plan the funeral festivities. I'm OK with going old-school and being laid out like a slab of prime rib on a satin pillow. But feel free to mix in some contemporary death traditions. You should serve wine at the actual funeral, for instance. Get people all loosened up so that when the time comes to take turns talking about me, the good stories will come out.
For music, I'm thinking Tony Bennett. And not just CDs or a playlist. See if you can get the man himself to make a show. He might consider it, if you tell him about the cheesy broccoli rice casserole. He may need some help getting up the sloped driveway at Stewart-Kyle, but once inside, get him a glass of wine and prop him up in front of the fireplace and let him sing to me.
So to review: Keep all my shit, dress me up in something fine, make lots of food, let people tell stories about me, provide live music without a cover charge, and everyone have fun. Drinks are on my probated estate! And then everyone head over to the house to see the garage door.
