I attended a funeral recently that was…sad. Well, it was ok. Well, ok, it was sad, because it was a funeral, but it was also sad, because none of the speakers were very good and didn’t do their father’s life true justice. So as I sat there not crying, I determined that I want exceptional speakers at my funeral. Which means I’m going to have to pick them before I die. I can’t trust amateurs to do this.
Wait a minute. It just occurs to me that I’m going to have to speak at my own funeral. What? What’s wrong with that? I want my funeral to be really good, so I want good speakers, but I don’t want to be overshadowed at my own funeral—it’s my day! I want the spotlight! So I’m just gonna have to suck it up and speak.
Not to mention the fact that all of my sisters will probably speak, which means I’ll need an opportunity for a rebuttal anyway. And I don’t just want someone to read my speech or hear audio of me reciting my speech…nope, I’m going to film it. On my phone. A selfie eulogy.
I will, of course, film it in the exact perfect location and wear the exact perfect shoes. Nantucket Island, black Louboutin pumps. No brainer. I’ll be holding pictures of my dearly beloved pups—all six of them. And the music in the background? Nine Inch Nails. See no one would have gotten that right. This is why I have to do it myself.
My eulogy will go a little something like this:
“Hello everyone at my funeral! Thank you so much for coming to celebrate the fabulousness that was me. First of all, just know that I’m very happy here. Heaven is exactly what I hoped it would be. I lay on the beach all day reading wonderful books with all of my pups surrounding me. I eat chips, salsa and margaritas non-stop without guilt or weight gain; and I’m pampered by beautiful Greek cabana boys who love my body. So don’t you worry about me. Death is good.
“I know my funeral has been very touching thus far and I realize that you’ve been crying and your mascara is smeared all over your face and you’ve gone through about 80 kleenexes. By the way, if you haven’t been crying, you’re dead to me. Get out.
“For those of you still sitting here, I feel the need to rebut some of the comments and stories that my sisters have told about me. Most of those stories are urban legend, by the way. Like the one about long family car trips. They probably told you that if I had to sit in the middle, I couldn’t stand having my hips touched, so I put magazines between my hips and the sisters sitting on either side of me. Two words: urban legend. I have no recollection of these events.
“And the story Smartest told you about me being hard to babysit? Did it ever occur to you that maybe Smartest was hard to be babysat by? The woman’s a perfectionist: take a bath, Beatrice; brush your teeth, Beatrice; go to bed, Beatrice!! Who can live up to that?
“Yes, I did bite Sweetest’s shoulder. But she sat on my Barbie.
“Ok, on to the important stuff. This is the part where I share wisdom, life lessons, what I wish I had or hadn’t done in life, and advice on how you can learn from my mistakes and be a better person. I’ve spent a long time on this one, so listen carefully:
“You’re kicking ass.
“That’s it. You really are kicking ass and you have got to be proud of yourself for that. I mean, just the fact that you got out of bed this morning, put on your black clothes, and came to my funeral—you’re not wearing black clothes? Why aren’t you wearing black clothes? Major funeral faux pas. Get out.
For those of you still here: you’re kicking ass. You are amazing just being you. Because sometimes being you is really freakin’ hard. But you’re doing it. And you’re kicking ass doing it.
“So until we meet again at the big beach in the sky, keep kicking ass. I’ll have chips and salsa and a ginormous margarita here waiting for you. But the cabana boys? Fuggetaboutit. Those are all mine.”