On Friday, I said good-bye to my friend, and I wish like hell that I could say it was wonderful and uplifting, but it was neither of those things.
It was unspeakably awful.
Someone (likely her parents) had put together some poster board montages of pictures of Steph in better days and they carefully portrayed someone so full of life, so vivacious that it made it even harder to remember that the person in that open casket all stretched out and weird looking was the same person.
Hearing her five year old son say, “Hey, want to look at my mom? She’s all dead and hard.” and then her two year old say, “No, wanna see MOMMY!” when he was taken away from the coffin made my heart sink and die a little bit right then and there.
Whomever the person that officiated was (it was in a funeral home, so I don’t think it was a pastor or anything) sucked. She made me angry, with her stupid metaphors about Steph’s struggle with alcoholism and mental illness, and above all else, she sucked and Steph would have hated her speech.
She made it sound as though Steph was routinely sitting around in heavy eyeliner listening to The Cure’s Disinegration on repeat carving “Kurt Cobain” in her arm. It couldn’t have been farther from who she was.
She also claimed that all that we’d loved about Steph, her effervescence and wit, her humor and braveness had all been part of her illness. Yeah, fuck and you come to mind as I recall that. Don’t you DARE take away who she really was to any of us. You did not even know her.
(In the words of one of my Metal Heads, “Anytime you evoke Lazarus at a funeral, you’re an idiot.” See, these are Catholic School educated Metal Heads.)
We held our own sort of remembrance afterwards at a bar down the street from the funeral home, and the mood, although seemingly buoyant to bystanders, was downright morbid. We each took turns talking about what we wanted the other to make absolute sure that our funeral would hold (not something one would normally think about and discuss, but then again, none of us expected to be there).
Scott wanted to be stuffed and set up in a chair a la Weekend At Bernie’s, and we assured him that when the firewood inevitably got low, we’d throw him on as kindling.
I explained that under absolutely no circumstances would my casket be open to freak everyone out (no one looks like they did in life, no matter how good the makeup artist is), but since some morbid A-Hole would probably want to see me, I insisted that I be in full KISS makeup.
I mean, if I’m not going to look like myself anyway, I may as well REALLY not look like myself.
I also appointed Kristin as my flower monitor, and as such she would be responsible for insuring that only good flowers make it to my graveside. No filler flowers, absolutely no carnations or daisies and under NO circumstances would lilies (aside from Cala lilies, which I adore) be allowed. Pretty much anything ordered from the Funeral section of a florists selection would be a no go.
And anyone who dared bring either wreaths that said “Beloved Mother” or “Devoted Wife” OR plastic flowers would be sent away at the door. Return to sender.
I also explained that rather than give my children an inheritance, I was going to hire out- of-work actors to weep hysterically at my grave several times a week. For as many years as the money would last.
I wish like anything I’ve ever wished that the funeral had provided closure (what the hell is closure, anyway? Seriously, I don’t get that concept.) or that I can say that I honestly feel better, but it would be a lie. (I’m not sitting around in heavy eyeliner listening to The Cure’s Disinegration on repeat carving “Kurt Cobain” on my arm, either though).
Steph’s death did, however, make damn sure that any other petty annoyances seem even more trivial than they previously had. And I make certain that I count each and every one of my blessings.
And that is a good thing.
One of the last truly happy memories I have of my friend Steph was when we went together to see the Rolling Stones. I loved The Stones, but Steph was obsessed. Her bedroom walls were literally papered floor to ceiling with pictures of Mick and The Boys carefully cut from magazines, and she had a typical girlish crush (read: obsession) with Mick Jagger.
Saw you stretched out in room ten-o-nine
With a smile on your face
And a tear right in your eye
I can still see her in my mind’s eye, if I try hard enough, huge smile on her face as she belted out the lyrics to all of the songs (of which, I personally knew only a fraction) while taking drags off her Camel Wide Light.
Couldn’t seem to get a line on you
My sweet honey love
That was my friend.
The same friend who smelled like a garden with me, the same friend who threw my baby shower when I was pregnant with Ben. She (and Ashley) are the reason that for every party I throw, I must have a cutout Hula Girl thrown up somewhere (we found it along with every color of the rainbow baby dolls in our quest for the Tackiest Shower Decorations Ever). She was my introduction to flavored coffees and Opium perfume. I think I still have her copy of “Goat’s Head Soup” somewhere.
Well, you’re drunk in the alley, baby
With your clothes all torn
And your late night friends
Leave you in the cold gray dawn
Just seemed too many flies on you
I just can’t brush them off
Somewhere, probably up in Heaven, she is laughing at me right now. I can almost hear it’s distinctive peal tinkling over me as I write this. She’s sitting up in Heaven surrounded by stacks of every Rolling Stones record (even the unreleased B-Sides) ever recorded, drinking her ubiquitous cup of coffee, with a carton of Camel Wide Lights by her side, and she is laughing.
She had a beautiful laugh. It was the sort that made you smile no matter what mood you were in, the kind that made other people around you stop and look around for the source (but not because it was annoying or grating, but because it was so full of happiness). I always wished I’d had a laugh like that, and now I just wish I could hear her laugh again.
Tonight I bury my friend.
And the angels beating all their wings in time
With smiles on their faces
And a gleam right in their eyes
Thought I heard one sigh for you
Come on up, come on up, now
Come on up, now
(I am linking here so that you may go over and see what she looked like. I don’t have a scanner, so I cannot scan a picture in of her right this moment like I’d like to).
This week, I’ve been posting under titles ripped from Rolling Stones lyrics as a (pathetic) tribute to Steph, as I know she would have liked it. I don’t have any better way to commemorate her yet, so I will likely continue doing so from time to time. Maybe it’s not as permanent as a tattoo, but it’s something.
One of my own favorite Stones songs has always been “Shine a Light,” but it always confused me until Steph died. The ebullient chorus coupled with the really depressing stanzas always seemed such a disconnect until I looked at them in this light. When I reread the lyrics, it made perfect sense.
Now, if this were anyone else, I’d have scoured The Internet looking for a poem or quote to dedicate, but Steph probably wouldn’t have appreciated that nearly as much. It just wasn’t the way she rolled.
And normally, I refrain from posting lyrics to songs because it makes no fucking sense and offers very little emotion without the music behind it, but today isn’t a normal day.
May the Good Lord shine a light on you
Make every song you sing your favorite tune
May the Good Lord shine a light on you
Warm like the evening sun.
The world is a colder place having lost Steph, although I am certain she is far happier where she is now. But I’m a selfish prick, and I want her back. I don’t want to be attending her funeral tonight. I don’t want to bury my friend.
I want her to come back and tell me that this was the ultimate prank. I want her to jump out from behind a door and yell “Psych!” and laugh uproariously at my stunned reaction. I want her to be who she was before the disease took her Shine away from her, and I want her to get her life back on track. I want to have coffee and play dates with her, I want our children to grow up together as good friends, I want to sit around and reminisce about the dumb shit we did when we were kids. I want to get old with her and start switching to decaf and vitamins, rather than coffee and cigarettes, I want to laugh with her again.
I don’t want to bury her tonight.
She was my friend and I loved her very much and I don’t want her to be dead.
Even during my Single Years ™, I always have had a deep affection for Valentine’s Day, probably, at least in part, because it showcases my favorite colors: Red, Pink, and Sparkly. I’m not going to say that before I got a built-in Valentine (well, three of them, if you’re counting), I didn’t occasionally long to do something romantical with my other half, but I never knew what that was, exactly, which made it exceptionally hard to wish for.
Even after however many years The Daver and I have been together (let’s not count, mmkay?), we have yet to form any interesting traditions relating to Valentine’s Day (aside from me buying every Pink -n- Spangly thing I can get my mitts on), and I am pretty okay with that.
I guess I just don’t see the point in Valentine’s Day.
I mean, any holiday that nets me some presents (oh, I am so easily bought) is A-Okay in my book, and I do love buying gifts for the Sausage Factory nearly as much as I love getting them, but shit, why is there only one day of the year that I have to express my love?
And how, exactly, is love bought with a box of crappy chocolates (which I have actually never gotten) or wilting flowers? I have a feeling that if I were to be on the receiving end of either of those gifts, I would end up more upset than if I’d gotten nothing at all. Why? Because I dislike crappy versions of ANYTHING, and stuffed animals for people over the age of 8 drive me up a wall.
But I am probably in the minority here, as I noticed wall-to-wall such items yesterday at Mecca (read: Target), which means that there is a market for these gifts.
I don’t know.
Aside from the gifting and the color scheme, Valentine’s Day isn’t all that appealing to me (to be fair, if Bastille Day–which happens to be the day before my birthday, so mayhap this is a bad example– were the day in which I got presents, I would like it just as well). I don’t love my husband any more or any less today than I will tomorrow (unless he magically makes the ice melt from the driveway; then I will love him more), and I’ve always thought real romance was found in the day-to-day stuff.
Passion is great, I’m told, but it fizzles and you’re left sitting across the table with someone whose deplorable manners you’d never noticed when he was giving you multiple orgasms.
Maybe it’s not as thrilling to have someone who will (without prompting) clean out the coffee maker for you so that your morning coffee doesn’t taste vaguely minerally, but I don’t care. Passion doesn’t set up e-payments for the bills or pick you up McDonalds when you’re needing a fix. Passion doesn’t watch you push an 8 pound baby out of your crotchal area WITHOUT VOMITING, nor does it stay up late to help your big son fill out last minute Valentines, and I’m pretty sure it doesn’t even clean up dog barf from the white (WHITE!) carpeting.
I’d rather have someone who, without making a gross poo face, will plunge the toilet you’ve just clogged (while complimenting your toilet clogging prowess), or drop everything he’s doing to visit your dad in the ICU.
Maybe it’s not the sentiment expressed in a Hallmark card, but it’s real and that’s what I care about.
The Daver, who smiles as he takes my shit and sometimes even laughs when he’s wearing his phone headset and I follow him around trying to order a cheeseburger and large Diet Coke, is the man I never expected I’d be lucky enough to marry.
And no matter how pissed off I can become with him, I never forget that.
Ever.
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So tell me what YOU think about Valentine’s Day. Love it? Hate it? Marginally indifferent?
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And happy Valentine’s Day to all of you! Aunt Becky loves you, you know.
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