Hack hack (cough cough)

Yesterday I was called into help a director. They needed me to put some pens and notepads in boxes. Today, I got called in there again. “Do you want to shake or pour?”  They were standing next to a marble urn, and a bag of grey ashes.

…”…whichever one requires less experience?”

I poured the ashes of the deceased into the urn, pausing every few minutes while they picked it up, and shook it, to settle the ashes to make more room.  I’ve handled cremains before, but not one so full of white pieces – bone chunks, he confirmed. “They probably need a new blade on their macerator.”

There was a hole in the bag, and some dust poufed out, onto the towel beneath us, and onto my hands. “Huh,” I sort of…made a noise. As it so happened, I know the ex-husband of this particular decedent. And here she was…chalking up my hands, choking me with the dry dust.

Another director shared a story, about filling up a cremorial. Those are those plaques you see, on walls in cemeteries. Unscrew the plaque, insert box of cremains. Except where they worked, they had to actually pour the cremains into the receptacle.

Remember where I said, “…you see, on walls…?” They’re outdoors. Rain, snow, sleet…the cremains must be delivered. She was pouring one such into it’s final resting place, when a nice wind gusted up. “Oh,” the family remarked,”how lovely, a nice breeze…”

Meanwhile, the director is sputtering and choking on their dear father’s ashes, now scattered (free of charge!) in addition to being held in a cremorial.

“One day I’ll write a book.”  I’ve heard that a lot, in my years in the funeral business.  That’s what it needs, the Anthony Bourdain of funeral business, to write a scathing tell-all, behind the scenes peek…without all the good food, though. And sex. And good food.

Man alive these people make me laugh.

http://www.geekologie.com/

Things that make you go… “WHAT??”

So Videogum is one of my daily sites. Them kids write some funny stuff! GG recaps are the best. They also scour the web to bring you the best (worst) and brightest (most likely to make you call your mom and tell her you love her) in misc. videos.

They claim this one is “weird and creepy:”

but I disagreed. It was kinda silly and cute. Perhaps my history with fetishes and performance art has immuned me to such behaviours. Dunno. The fun doesn’t end there, though, oh no.  You can FEEL the electricity in the air, as he shares his Goodwill find of 86 diapers:

SCORE! I know just how he feels. I found a pair of hardly used Crocs, once. Though, as a commenter asks,

“Isn’t it selfish to buy all those diapers from Goodwill? I understand you’re into them and all, but there are people who have a practical need and use for them.”

Yes. Like her fellow commenter:

“Nice collection- I envy you :( How did Krasdale Ultra Diapers feel when wore them & after you wet them?”

Pamperchu is clearly a caring – and green – fellow. Making sure his Blue stays dry, but also making the effort, and spending the time, to ensure the diaper should be tossed in the first place:

If Mother Earth could comment, I know she’d say “Thank you!”

I had an interesting trip.

News of Michael Jackson’s hospitalization broke as I was pulling away from work towards the interstate. Half-way through, he was dead.

“Wow,” I thought. That is what I will remember from this weekend…where I was when Michael Jackson died. I was locked into the half bathroom on the first floor of our house in Nurnberg, fresh from spring break in Ibiza (with a youth group, in off season) on the phone with Rachel, she told me Kurdt Cobain killed himself. I don’t remember if I cried.

I felt teary, mildly, when I heard MJ died. It was pretty easy to laugh, though, listening to people call into radio stations, crying about how he helped them come out of the closet, and he’s her “brother, my blood brother…”

Poor Farrah, totally eclipsed…I’m too young for this, I thought. My generational icons shouldn’t be dying off until I’m old… 

Anyways, so RIGHT when the radio told me Michael Jackson died, I drove into a torrential, blinding rain storm. God is sobbing! I laughed to myself.

It eased up, and I pulled off into a rest area. The parking lot was empty, which is odd. I remember a scare – perpetuated by Ann Landers, at least – about rest stop murders, as I hurried through the drizzle.

All the trash cans were overflowing, spilling onto the ground. One bathroom had a “CLOSED FOR CLEANING” sign, the was as empty as the parking lot. I walked all the way to the end, making sure they were all empty. There was a towel, an ugly brown, large bath towel, hanging on the sink wall.

I made it back to my car unmurderized.

About 30 min/miles from my destination, my pedometer went from 85ish to…zero. Luckily, I had plenty of Michael Jackson fans calling in, tearfully proclaiming him the most famous man ever (which I can’t argue with).

As I was gathering my luggage (have, obviously, arrived at my destination and parked), my friend/hostess jumped up to the car. “I’ve had an emergency!” Her cat had a metal something poking through it’s leg. “Go, go!” I shooed through her apologies (I’ve never been to her house)(which is freakin’ awesome).

Hopefully all is well…we’d planned to go out for some food and drinks, first Farrah, then Michael, now a cat! What a trip.

Boooo…

We have this crazy antique, crank vending machine (as in, when you put money in, you then turn the handle to move the spiral thingie, to get it to come out). We could get a new, fancy one, that has drinks, microwaveable entrees, and snacks – whatever ones we want. The person heading that up is asking everyone in the office for a “yay” or “nay.”

I said, “Who in the world wouldn’t want that one?” She agreed. I said, “Make it so, Number One,” in my best Picard.

Nobody laughed. 😦

People are always like, “Why do you hate hippies? Why don’t you come to the woods for three days and take drugs and druuummmm….maaaan….”

Because you people are these people:

 

Yesterday a man (my age or quite older, depending on who you asked) pulled a chair up to his mother’s casked, climbed atop it, and sat there. Sat on her casket, leaning against the wall.

He is, in the words of my co-workers, “Not right.” That’s up there with “Bless her heart…” and “Somebody needs to pray for him,” ie, Southern euphemisms for (in their opinion) disdainful, impolite topics (sluts, alcoholics and mentally retarded people*) – like the mom in St. Elmo’s Fire.

He’s got the cancer.

 

*those three words  matching the aforementioned phrases, in chronological order, not grouped together as having anything in common – other than things well-bred Southern women won’t mention by name

I want to set up a table outside the portajohns at various events I go to, don a tuxedo, and offer moist towels, tampons, combs, etc. This would go nicely with that:

I’m stealing the caption from DW

Because the video isn’t as funny without it.

“This guy must really hate white clothes because he seems pretty damn psyched about not being allowed to wear them anymore.”

via

Who is J.?

Julie Winters has been my psuedonym for…I don’t know, ten years? (In college, once, I painted a lovely portrait of her in blood. Ennui, much?) If I ever go to DragonCon, I’ll be the Jungle Queen (coincidentally one of my favourite movies and songs).

A lot people have never heard of The Maxx. Mostly, because the majority of the hoi polloi simply are nowhere near as cool as I am.

Catch up, humanity, catch up.