Funerals: A great place to spark up

Not until a funeral do you really get the full flavor of family dysfunction. Nothing like a little anomie to throw a bit of spice into the stories you get to tell to your friends at a more socially acceptable later date. Or maybe on a blog. So there I was, dressed in my funeral best (which, I might add, is also my conference best, presentation best, and general purpose awkward family gathering best), for my grandfather's funeral when my cousin K comments how all of the female cousins get better looking every year. Pause here to experience the awkwardness in its full glory. Got it? Good. So then off to the funeral we go. Before the services, we peruse the floral arrangements, gossiping about who sent flowers and who did not and what nefarious reasons underlie their obvious refusal to acknowledge and honor the occasion. Bastards! This is an important step in the grieving process, apparently. At the service I sat next to my grandmother, who has the blessing of dementia on her side. At one point, my grandmother turns to me and asks if I knew the deceased. I have a moment to consider my options before replying honestly. "Ah," she said. "Did I know him too?" "Yeah, I think so." "Oh...well that is sad." "Yep." It is a moment that makes me believe for a second we are drinking beer in an alley, A la King of the Hill, rather than sitting in a poorly appointed funeral parlor.

But the best piece of any Midwestern family gathering is always the reception afterward, and this one did not fail to disappoint. Mysterious jellos and puddings of all varieties adorned counter and tabletops as we stacked plates with cold meats and other church-lady fare. As we all took our places, cousins filtering into one room with other family members migrating to other rooms, the most interesting and completely inappropriate conversations ensue--Again, lead by the intrepid cousin K. For a few moments we are regaled with the 30-second Bunny Theatre version of events which landed his older brother in prison, or as K likes to call it, "some sort of day camp." You know, the day camp they send convicted felons to. Where you get to wear stripes and choose the bitch that best suits your personality. Perhaps even a shiv-making class in the afternoons, if your behavior at "camp" awards such privileges. But if you thought the fun and games would end there, you're in a rare bit of luck. The discussion evolved (devolved, perhaps?) into the pros and cons of heroin and methamphetamine use. Now, we didn't dive into this conversation lightly. Thirty-something year old Cousin K made all the necessary safety checks by looking over his shoulder to make sure is mother could not hear his rhapsodies about the substances. He must be the smart cousin. Participating also in the conversation was Cousin T, whose auditory hallucinations, delusions, unusual thinking and flat affect have given rise to many a family conversation about the need for her to pray more often. Cousins K and T, who enjoyed quite the heroin-addled tear in the mid-1990s, ended the conversation with each staring wistfully off into a corner, wondering (out loud) where they could find "the good stuff" like they used to. (Especially now that their source is in day camp).

Escaping to the garage to find desserts for the family members who were fortunate enough to miss out on that conversation, I find myself once again in the presence of Cousin K. Distant warning bells, the kinds that let our ancestors know that whatever is making that rustling noise in the bushes isn't a surprise birthday party, began to ring. "So do you, like, imbibe?" I stick my head into the fridge farther, pretending to be really interested in the particles lost and floating in the sea of red jello. "'Cuz I know a guy who lives down the street a ways. You could drive us over there." Hmmm...that last part was a pretty good sales pitch. I mean come on, I could blow off my entire family at my grandfather's funeral to go buy drugs with my convicted felon cousin who made a pass at me earlier in the day. And I would get to be the get away driver! Temptations abound. Spooning mystery pudding onto a plate and wondering what my Chicago life was doing without me at that moment, I brace myself to turn around. "Well, umm....that sounds good and all, but I think I'm going to stick with my current plan of delivering this pudding to grandma. But thanks, really, for thinking of me." I leave him with his puzzled look, fighting the urge to lock the door once inside the house and tell everyone he was eaten by jello microbes.

And that's not even including the part where my mom couldn't tell me from my sister (who is seven years younger, 6 inches taller, 50 pounds lighter, and a brunette) in the family photos. Oh families.