Okay, so it’s been a milliondy-bajilliondy degrees here for weeks even though it’s not yet mid-June. Seriously, if this keeps up, by August living here will be like living on the surface of the sun.
Anyway, we just moved to a new (to us) house a few weeks ago and we put in several (8) baby trees that we’re supposed to water. The landscape guru was quite specific, fifteen minutes twice/week. Easy enough.
So last night, after the second hose-tree-swap, I came back in and forgot to set the timer. This means two of the trees were watered until I finally remembered that I was watering trees–in other words for about two hours. (Confession time–a few years ago, different house, different tree–I did something similar except I left the hose running for two days. A neighbor’s yard guy had to come into my back yard and turn it off. Sigh.)
I have to assume the trees will be fine, but this bodes poorly for my upcoming dotage for two reasons:
- I forgot all about the timer in the amount of time it took to walk from the yard into the house, and
- Apparently it takes me two hours (or two days) to realize that I’ve forgotten something.
Heaven help me when I have twelve different pills to take every day.
So…in musing about old age and the afterlife (see post title) I am reminded of an almost funny story about my friend…let’s call her Morticia
Last summer a friendly conversation with Morticia took a hard right into the Twilight Zone, when she confided in me about a habit of hers and, I believe, her entire extended family…they photograph the dead. In other words they take photos of friends and family member post-mortum (as in while they lie in their coffins). Morticia then puts these photos in a “death book” (at least that’s what I think she called it. I was too horrified to pay close attention.)
When this information prompted me to quickly say, “Well, when I die I’m having a closed casket funeral” (because really wouldn’t you say that after hearing about Morticia’s death book?) she said something like, “Oh, I’ll find a way to get your casket open to take a photo.”
I have two problems with this:
- I’m really not all that photogenic when I’m alive and breathing. Even before my body parts started sagging, every picture ever taken of me has made me look either mentally challenged or stoned. I shudder (shutter? groan. sorry the pun police will here soon) to think what a snapshot of me as a corpse would resemble.
Now I like Morticia. She’s smart and funny and resourceful, and I can’t think of anyone I’d rather put in charge of a fundraiser. I should have her over for dinner…just not my funeral.