Wednesday, July 14, 2010


I could teach that Alanis Morrisette or whatever her name is a few things about irony.
I watch Food Network while walking on the treadmill.
I work for the funeral home but I don't like going to funerals and/or visitations.
Let's focus on that one.

Apparently the sad stuff's not so fun when you're not getting paid for it.
I'm an excellent actress.
I can put on a sad face with the best of them.
When it comes to having to attend one of these events off the clock my heart goes into hysterics.
I get all nervous and flippy-outy inside.
I ask myself, "Self, you do this for a living.
What's the big deal?"
I get in line.
I walk to the casket.
I proceed to cringe and look away.
Its like this big humongous dancing pink elephant in the room that I'm trying my hardest to not get stepped on by.

Don't look at the body, don't look at the body.
Be cool, you're a pro.

I shake the hands, hug the necks.
I ask, "How are you?" like an idiot when I know how they are.
They say fine but nobody who's at the funeral home is fine unless they're dead or getting paid to be there.
And sometimes the ones getting paid to be there aren't fine.

This stuff is not fun unless there's money involved.

(At first, the title to this post was a complete accident.
I have a squeaky trigger finger and my computer is equipped with a separate "$" key.
After writing this I thought the accidental title fit better than anything I could ever come up with.)

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