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There is a holiday in Mexico called Dia de los Muertos. It means “day of the dead.” Basically, you hang out in graveyards and party with dead friends and relatives. It’s much like some of our holidays here, except for the dead part, although many may argue that family gatherings ARE pretty dead until Uncle Alf ties one on and starts talking politics. In Mexico, Tio Alf would not be able to dominate the conversation because he’d be, well, DEAD.
In Mexico, the custom is to pile the dead person’s favorite things on the grave and have a good time drinking, eating, and remembering the deceased. One of my Dad’s favorite movies was Weekend At Bernie‘s. Basically it’s about a beach party with a corpse who’d been the boss of the two main characters. They try to give the impression that he’s still alive so they don’t get in trouble. You see, Bernie was murdered and the ramifications of this would not be too swell for them. You can imagine the finesse required to convince people that someone is alive, when if fact, they are not. My Dad thought this was GREAT cinema. So if we were to hang with Dad‘s remains he’d want this movie. We can’t gather at his grave though, because Dad is kinda everywhere. He’s on the ground under a parking tower in Canfield, Ohio. He’s in a church flower garden in Sebring, as well as in a vase in my living room. But if we COULD party with Dad in one place we would watch Weekend At Bernie’s, eat cheese and crackers and hoist vodka and tonics or Diet Pepsi’s. I think if we watch a movie about a dead guy WITH a dead guy it would be like dead-to-the-second-power mathematically. Or dead squared, I think. I’m not sure; I’ve always sucked at math.
I have often thought about things I’d want my friends to bring to my grave. It’s highly unlikely I will HAVE a grave. Most likely my ashes will be in a Minnetonka shoebox in the back of my daughter’s closet. But for the sake of fantasy, I would want 5-star Pad Thai with extra shrimp, copper jewelry and black shirts. Oh, and I’d like a cheap, purple wine at room temp. There’s other stuff I‘d like, but it’s already creepy enough that I fantasize about what people will bring to me when I’m dead, don’t you think? I mean, a normal fantasy would involve Johnny Depp, some feathers and a jar of smooth peanut butter.
I have a passion for black shirts. I’ll wander through a department store and be drawn to tables with folded tops of various colors. I always go for the black stack. I like long shirts in cotton/spandex blends. Invariably, when I bring a shirt home and hang it up I will see that I already have it, though not quite black anymore because I’ve washed it so many times. I have a whole gaggle of black shirts. Is it a gaggle or a herd when referring to shirts? Pod? Anyway, I have a load of them.
I don’t think one can have too many black shirts or Converse sneakers in various colors. I would want those on my grave as well. I left my black Converse sneakers in Ohio last summer and it totally bums me out. People don’t return black Converse high-tops when you leave them behind even if the people are good friends. I know I wouldn’t…
I always get the same thing when I go to a Thai restaurant. I know it’s like ordering vanilla ice cream at a place that serves 38 flavors… so shoot me. I get Pad Thai extra, extra hot with lots of shrimp. Any food with noodles, peanuts, shrimp, and hot sauce is officially a perfect food. Most Thai restaurants down here don’t give you actual 5-star hot because there are so many delicate stomachs (read old). But once I went to a restaurant on the beach with my daughter and ordered 5-star Pad Thai. I sweat like I was in a steam sauna and my lips got as huge as the bad lip-job that Meg Ryan had. I’m surprised she could even talk with those lips. I mean, I guess big, puffy lips are supposed to be sexy, but what if they EXPLODE while you kiss someone? How sexy is THAT? “Excuse me, there are tiny pieces of my lips all over your face. I would flick them off for you but my mouth is bleeding profusely so I should excuse myself. Do you have any band-aids in your bathroom? Or a cauterizing instrument?” Water does not help take the pain of hot food away. You are supposed to drink milk. I hate milk. So I drank tons of water and continued to eat the 5-star. I found it painfully exciting. My daughter told me to stop eating it but I was like a junky with the stuff. I have never had that dish THAT hot since we ate at that restaurant.
I like big, gaudy pieces of copper jewelry too. However, my grave would not be terribly colorful heaped with black shirts, Pad Thai, and copper. But if we include Converse sneakers of many bright colors, they could be arranged like daisy-petals around everything. It wouldn’t be so bad, especially with a few candles, pillows, adirondack chairs, and a huge bottle of Pino Noir. I think mine just might be the most happening plot in the cemetery!
Too bad I won’t be able to come. Vaya con dios.
Debbie Cashon Klein is a Safety Harbor resident.
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