Very tired.
So tired, must resort to Entry In Bullet Points because it’s just to hard to make the effort to convert it all to a cohesive narrative.
- Before Gen’s death, we had made plans to install the hardwood flooring on Saturday. Thus, despite our all-over weltschmerz, we had a ton of prep work to do before that could happen. Thursday night, we emptied all of our crap out of the living room (with help from the always charming Eric, who in no way resembles sperm, nope, uh-uh), ripped the carpet out of the hall. Because the hall is the only way to get to the bathroom, we had to time the sealing of said hall very carefully. Originally, Esteban had planned to do it on Friday while I was at work, but since we had the funeral on Friday, that was derailed, and thus we sealed it at 11 pm Thursday night and went to bed very thirsty.
- We had the funeral proceedings on Friday. We were at the funeral home for something like six hours. I think time slows down in funeral homes. At the two hour mark, I almost fainted when someone told me what time it was.
- Weird moment: Joel stopped by and told me ‘You look very nice.’ ‘Thanks Joel.’ Then he made this weird click noise. ‘What was that?’ ‘What?’ ‘That click noise.’ ‘Well, I don’t know’ it’s just that, it’s a sad day and even still ‘ damn, you’ve got it going on.’ Joel is my new best friend. Actually, I did think I looked good, even with the Junior League hair, sedate light plum nail polish and similarly toned plum lipstick, a step away from my normal Rock Star tousle, deep red polish or French manicure and glossed lips. Even undercover, I can’t stop my inner diva from shining through. Of course, I was sporting The Boots. I mean, jeez, just because it was a funeral didn’t mean we had to be all Amish and stuff.
- Gen’s friends from her old apartment building stopped by. I adored them and wanted to hug each one of them, especially this one little feisty lady in a walker. She couldn’t have even been four feet tall. And she was smiling and loud, like an elderly cheerleader. She was so cute I wanted to pinch her, or ask her if she was available for parties.
- They also made me want to cry. I walked with them up to the casket and you could just tell that they held her in great regard. I almost lost it when I heard one tell another one ‘I never would have thought she would have left so soon.’ Just that concept struck me. It’s like it wasn’t a death to them, it was just leaving the room and not coming back. Their understanding of life is just so much more profound.
- In a surprise appearance, my mom and Mafia Grandma stopped by as well. I was shocked, quite honestly, although I’m sure that either Mo told them or my Mafia Grandma saw it in the papers. I was very touched that they stopped by to give their respects to the family. It makes me ashamed because I don’t give my family enough credit.
- There is something about funerals that always pisses me off. I don’t know what it is, but I always end up getting extremely angry at the other participants. For instance, Esteban’s Aunt Leticia was being a real jerk. She showed up very late (as usual), had changed what Gen was to be wearing at the last minute, away from the two very nice outfits Gen herself had arranged to wear, to a very casual and very mid-80’s blouse and sweatshirt cardigan set, so it appeared like she was on her way to a craft show. And what was more, she had set up these picture boards, but only used pictures of her family and Gen, rather than including Esteban’s Aunt Tari or anything with Esteban and Gen. According to the boards she had set up, Gen only had one grandson (Aunt Leticia’s son). So the entire time, that made me angry. Then her husband brought his mistress Tequila, so Aunt Leticia was giving everyone a ‘Poor Me’ speech. I overheard the same speech no fewer than six times to various people.
- Of course, my anger is bipartisan. There is something about Tequila that always brings out my inner-snob in the worst way. Her hair was all stringy and kept falling in her face and the v-neck dress she wore was so large on her that it kept falling off her shoulder down to her elbow. Then later in the smoking lounge (she smokes 3-4 packs a day, doncha know), she bragged to Esteban that her entire outfit cost less than ten dollars (the dress was $4, the shoes were $3, the slip was from a tag sale for 50 cents. She must have not counted the undergarments or been gifted with a rare flash of propriety and not given the itemization.) Also, she invited a bunch of her family to the free dinner after the funeral. And they showed up wearing jeans and dirty athletic shoes and braying their low class laughter everywhere. Oh, and they brought Ziploc bags to take home leftovers. I am not making that up. And I even saw Tequila go back up to the buffet and score a plate piled high with chicken and bring it back to a greedy table all waiting with their bags poised. How is that ok with anyone? How? Seriously, how much does cold fried chicken cost? 12 pieces is maybe $15 at the local delis. Is it worth $15 to be white trash? I just don’t understand it. Oh, and they all took home the funeral decorations too. Tequila was seen carrying out the very nicest plant before we went to the dinner.
- Interesting moment: One of Esteban’s relatives came over to me and asked me who Tequila was. ‘That would be Rod’s’ um’ significant other, Tequila.’ ‘And Leticia?’ ‘Is Rod’s wife.’ The look on her face’ I am a very evil person, but I enjoyed it to no end. ‘And’ um’. Tequila you say? She’s Rod’s’?’ ‘They live together. Yes.’ ‘And Leticia?’ ‘Is still married to Rod.’ Confusion. Oh the lady was so very confused and didn’t know what to say. I shouldn’t have relished such confusion so, but I could have been far more evil and instead said, ‘Oh, I don’t know’ why don’t you have Rod introduce you?’ and then sat back and watched as Rod received the full brunt of the social indignity.
- Oh, and there was this little interesting gem: Mo, June and I were talking and someone said something about their house being a mess. I replied ‘Mine is too. It’s a constant battle.’ And June mentioned ‘Yeah, Dad said that he noticed you’ve been doing a better job of keeping it clean, ever since you started losing weight.’ Ok, there are so many things wrong with that sentence I don’t even know where to begin. First of all, why do they assume that I am the sole responsibility for the state of the house? If it is dirty or clean, why is it only my fault? Why doesn’t 50% (or more, because honestly, when he’s on a trip, I do the same amount of housework, only to achieve an incredible level of cleanliness, since there isn’t a little human clutter tornado undoing everything) of the blame sit squarely with Esteban? And why is cleaning it up my responsibility? Is he not an adult? Does he not have control of himself? Why does his inability to take action inside the house reflect poorly on me? Also, what does losing weight have to do with housework? Are there no longer dozens of discarded buckets of chicken littering the floors? Was I confined to a bed somewhere, watching The View while sucking down Crisco? Do fat, sloppy and lazy always go together? Or is it just that I now have so much free time, since I’m no longer shoveling mass quantities into my face? It all just boggles the mind. Damn Baby Boomers and their impossible perceptions of the world will be the death of me.
- After that rather exhausting day, we went home, stripped off our funeral clothes and laid in bed in our underwear while we let the day evaporate from our skin like vapor. Then we put on our grungy clothes and continued ripping the carpeting out of the living room. Esteban pulled up the tack strips along the perimeter (which were so old that they came away in toothpick size splinters rather than solid stripes) while I slid around the floor on my stomach, screwdriver in one hand, pliers in the other, and pried no fewer than 8493 ancient staples from the floor. Finally, around midnight, we sealed the floor and then fell into a stiff, aching sleep.
- Until six thirty, when I woke up, got dressed, and met Ward to go back to the funeral home and help him with the remaining funeral details. Aunt Leticia met us there and insisted that we help her take all of the floral arrangements to her place of employment. She also reached in and grabbed some of Gen’s jewelry, without saying a word to Ward or myself. I think she was hoping we hadn’t seen her do it. Then she went along with us, so that she could get some face time with her boss. Again, the anger and petty bullshit went on in my head. I should really try harder to be more forgiving. I suppose now that Gen is gone, she really has nothing holding her to this family any longer. Her husband is shacking up with a decrepit bar fly and doesn’t care to hide it, therefore doesn’t need Leticia to keep appearances.
- Then Ward and I went back to my house where Esteban had managed to rouse himself out of bed and we continued what I have decided is the pinnacle of our generation. Hardwoodstock. Three nights. Five trips to Home Depot. Six Million cans of Diet soda. The day was incredibly long. Longer than any day has a right to be. In the way that funeral time is slow, home restoration time is glacial. I suspect by the end of the evening we were onto hour four thousand. I made four different costume changes throughout the day (when I woke up, it was damn cold, thus long black track pants, black shirt, grey hoodie; then as it got warmer, I dumped the hoodie, and changed into a black t-shirt, which promptly got a white splotch of something on it. Then I switched to an old golf shirt, but also had to change bras, because a black bra and a white Polo shirt do not like each other. THEN it got warmer outside, so I dumped the track pants and put on beige cargo shorts. Then when it started to get cold outside again, I put the hoodie back on, but knew that if I took off my shoes to change pants, I’d never put them back on again, so stayed in the shorts and shivered, undoubtedly burning tens of extra calories in the process and thus negating the four doughnuts I ate throughout the day. Holy long parenthetical, Batman!). We gave up around ten o’clock, when it was too dark to see outside in order to operate the saw and everyone was ready to drop. End result? All done but for one rather perplexing row of wood in the hallway (requiring lots of angles and precise cuts around four doorways), the trim, and the doorway pieces that must apparently be ordered via the internet.
- I’m sore like I’ve been riding broncos all day. I have various cuts on my hands, including a rather annoying one on the knuckle of my ring finger. I have bruises. My hips hurt. I do not know why my hips hurt. Normally, they only hurt like that when’ well, let’s just say it shouldn’t hurt from just laying hard wood and never speak of it again.
- Also, the cat is going crazy. She’s been locked in the back part of the house (dining room, master bedroom, spare bedroom) for three nights, listening to strange sounds coming from the front of the house and then when I let her out last night, the delicious smelly warm wooly thing she used to lie upon is gone. No more cat urine fragrance. No more mysterious spot that she’d roll and roll and roll in. No warm golden sun bakey spot by the window. Gone. All gone. All smooth and pristine and smelling vaguely of formaldehyde. And we did not consult her even once. And then we had the audacity to only lie on the bed groaning and whining rather than lavishing her with attention. She is definitely holding a grudge. She probably wishes that I’d gain weight and stop with all of this nonsense.
My brain is fried. My living room is empty, but very pretty, much like the head of a fashion model. I actually put on the cutest pair of DKNY sunglasses yesterday while shopping for rugs and thought ‘Cute, but ugh, I have enough stuff.’ And they were on sale. ON SALE! I know. Next thing you know, I’ll be happily buying pork rinds at Wal-mart and sleeping on 123 thread count sheets.
Shudder.
