Gourds and Funeral Cake

Just got off the phone with my mother, who was telling me about her visit to her family's burial plot -- where my great aunt and uncle (still alive and well) were gleefully showing off their plots, complete with stone markers ("Celtic knots, and none of that flower business," said my mother)... all filled in except for the date.

"You know," I said, "It might be nice if you and dad made out a will so we knew what to do with you if something happened. You know, whether you want to be fried up or stuffed full of chemicals."

My mother responded saying that she wished to stuffed and erected in someone's house, wearing nothing but her black trench coat and a red thong.
Then she asked if she should have a colour theme for her funeral.

"Sure," I said. "We can get some of those nice candied almonds in different colours and give them out as party favours. And we can have funeral cake individually wrapped so people can place it under their pillows..."

"... And dream about their own funerals," chuckled my mum. And laughed. "I kinda like that idea!"

Not that it doesn't break my heart to think that there will come a day when I won't be able to see or talk to my mother ever again... but I'd like to think that when the time comes, I'll be able to look back and smile when I think of her lunatic suggestions for funeral arrangements.

Speaking of people out of their gourds, I bought a mixed bag of them (the gourds, not the people) yesterday.

I have strange fascination with them. Their bright colours, their unusual textures, their unusual shapes. I just find them so aesthetically pleasing.

Sometimes I wonder if Chris is right -- maybe I am a weird fucker.

Hooray for blood!

I got a last minute invitation from a newly-wed friend to attend Evil Dead: The Musical with some folks.

Since I had been interested in seeing it for some time (yes, I do know me a bit about the horror), I dove for the closet and felt compelled to wear a black shirt with dark jeans.

Good thing, too.

Our tickets were front row centre... me being dead centre. My friend's sister turned to me and said cheerfully, "I'm glad you could make it! You know you're in the splatter zone, right?"

Craaaaaaaap.

Well, it turns out that not even tucking a plastic poncho (courtesy of the theatre) across your lap will save you. One of the actors leaned in close, snapped the plastic and snarled (she was playing a demon, after all), "You're gonna get bloody, bitch!"

And hoo boy, did I ever. At one point, my blood-stained friends were howling with laughter every time they looked at me, claiming, "You look like someone fired a shotgun at the side of your face." One was in tears she was laughing so hard.

And far from being horrified, we chortled while desperately try to spray and smear each other with blood. There was a fountain of water faux blood burbing onto our table, and the thick sticky stuff was dripping from our hair, faces, clothes, arms, hands...

When the show was over, we were still laughing -- and so was everyone else in the theatre who saw us. I had actually taken the liberty of wiping a ton of it from my face as it was dripping into my eyes and stinging. We washed only our hands in the bathroom and tottered outside for drinks.

Needless to say, we were hardly inconspicuous. Four blood soaked adults giggling around the streets of downtown Toronto.

And that, my friends, is good ol' fashioned bloody fun.