Here is an incomplete list of absurd, funny, and stupid things that happened last weekend (my mother’s funeral):
Because my plans involved picking up four people from the airport, I reserved a “minivan.” As you can see from the photo above (my facial expression says it all), I did not get a minivan. I got something the military uses for Grand Canyon rescues. The perfect funeral mobile, this thing could have easily accommodated a coffin – and doubled as my hotel room. My cousins named it Ronda, after professional wrestler Ronda Rousey. “Can Ronda fit in that space?” “I don’t think Ronda wants to pick a fight with that semi.” For someone of her size and power, Ronda was a sensitive bitch. If I got too close to anything – like the leaves on the overhanging branch in my friend’s driveway – the entire driver’s seat started vibrating. Which is extra helpful when you’re already totally freaked out about driving something that huge.
My mother, whose middle name was Punctual, was late to her own funeral. Every major east coast highway was a gridlocked shitshow Friday, but the New Jersey Turnpike truly outdid itself this time. My brother, his family, and my mom’s ashes arrived near the end of the program, just in time for the priest to bless the remains.
Because my brother and family had spent all day driving, were stressed out and exhausted, and hadn’t had time to check into their AirBnB on the outskirts of town, my father decided to throw money at the problem and book them some rooms in the hotel where we were having the afterparty. Which was nice of him. Except he was doing this on his cell phone WHILE THE PRIEST WAS TALKING. A funeral home employee was trying to shush him and/or get him out into the hallway, but my father WAVED HER OFF.
My 5-year-old nephew was crying a lot. At first I thought this was because of his health issues. Turns out it was because he saw me, and my aunt and uncle – we both have golden retrievers – and he couldn’t find the dogs. Same here, kid.
The next morning, after the cemetery, 25 of us caravanned over to the next town, where I had made a lunch reservation in a private room in a cute little restaurant. Which apparently can accommodate multiple parties. When we walked in, a little bit after noon, a DJ was blasting Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” I wish I had a photo of my 89-year-old great aunt’s face upon arrival. Then we saw the wedding party, where the average age of the guests was about 22 and a half, everyone already hammered after their second bottle of Bud Light. Luckily we couldn’t hear any of it from the room where we had lunch.
After lunch, I drove 6 relatives over to my grandmother’s house. Or rather, the house my grandparents lived in for 60 years, where my mom and her brothers grew up, where I spent many Thanksgivings and Christmases growing up, which is now someone else’s house. If this was 20 years ago, all of us would have been sleeping at this house instead of in hotel rooms. When we arrived, the family was setting up for a big party on the back lawn. We mourners crashed a bridal shower.
The owner of the house was gracious about it, because he knows some of us; he is really into the history of the house and its former inhabitants. He and I exchanged contact information, and a couple days ago I got a very long email from him. My favorite bit is about the house’s basement apartment: “Sounded like your grandfather was quite the character. One of the renters said applying to rent the room was quite an ordeal. It was probably more thorough than some of the job interviews I had! This same renter told me when it came down to him and another candidate, your grandfather said, ‘What assurance can you give us that you're not going to turn our basement into a whore house?’"
To summarize: My father made an ass of himself at the funeral my mother almost missed, where the mourners rode in a tank named Ronda to crash a wedding and then a bridal shower at a house where the former owner was worried about whores.
Coming soon to theaters near you.
On tribes
Last week I wrote about how I think about my "tribe," and asked you how you define yours. Some responses:
"My tribe is also defined by various interests. I have pet friends, metaphysical friends, business friends, art friends. I usually have friends in a multitude of tribes but have never actually been in one. (Does high school choir count?) I'm always fascinated by people who have a group of friends that is diverse and not based around one interest."
"For me it all comes down to the language, which is likely driven by the shared experiences. In college particularly our rugby team had a whole manner of speaking and of using words that would confound an outsider’s understanding. Festive was 'FEHsssstiiiiv' and could be used both in the traditional sense and with a sardonic twist. Describing an event as "unfortunate" or person as 'unlucky' (always with our insider's pronunciation) meant you were pleased by the suffering experienced by the people involved. Same with my first job out of college and when I worked at a larger bike shop: in short order I would absorb the dialect and find myself at loss when in a group that did not understand."
"Totally relate to what you have written about and share your current understanding of what it means be part of a 'tribe.'"
"I think I have many tribes, and I’m not sure if any of them intersect. The first tribe I belonged to, and still have a sense of kinship with, is the Military Brat Tribe. I was an Air Force brat and my father the Air Force officer/pilot was an Army Brat; we were part of the same tribe and also were family. I’m even part of a Military Brat closed Facebook group, and although I don’t personally know any of the members of the group, they are all my tribe, my “peeps.” I just became a member of the Single Moms/Single Parents Tribe, and as a new member, I’m seeking mentors and guiding hands. I consider some of the closed FB groups I participate in to be my tribes, usually the initial things we have in common are our age or race or that we’re curly-haired silver goddesses, and I feel like those other members are part of my tribe, all of them provide me with insight and knowledge and support and I certainly hope I do the same for them, although we haven’t met in person."
"I have been thinking about your tribe question all week and can’t figure out how to answer it. And that is because, I realize now, I just do not have a tribe. I have a spouse and children but to me, they do not fall under the tribe category. I think, a tribe would have to be people who accept me as I am, make me feel safe and welcome, make me feel like I belong, and those do not have to necessarily be your close friends, especially since mine are scattered and from different parts of my life. I don’t have a tribe. Why? Most likely because I don’t feel like I fit in anywhere. Maybe not everyone is meant to have a tribe."
Good stuff
For next week
If Netflix bought my ridiculous-weekend story to make a movie, I think I'd want Sandra Bullock to play me, because she could totally nail my facial expressions. What about you? If someone made a movie about your life, which actor would you want to play you? This can be "realistic" or pure fantasy. As always, you can reply directly to this email, and anything I share will be anonymous.
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