Truth is, I haven’t been crying lately because of other people’s struggles. Maybe I haven’t been seeking out the stories that make me sob. Maybe I’m broken. Or maybe I wasted all my tears when watching a movie recently with a friend…who wrote about it here.

The rest of the post remains the same.

Love, me

I host a crawfish party every year with two other people. We, the hosts, all live in Utah now but grew up in states where crawfish were prevalent.

Susan & Paul & Donna

Donna, a dear friend, is from Mississippi. It comes in handy to know that little song (M-I-S-S-I-S-S-I-P-P-I) when you have to spell that state. Donna is kind enough to have the party in her amazing backyard each year. We spend our evening under a fully grown beautiful sycamore tree. We even have lights strung up on it. We even had a guest climb up the tree. He is an attorney so we were worried that he’d fall out and sue our asses.

Paul, the token man host, is from Louisiana. When hosting a large party with lots of manly tasks, it is always wise to include a man with brawn on the team. It doesn’t hurt that he played football at LSU all through college. He taps the keg. He carries the filled coolers. He moves around the propane tanks. He does all the cooking.

Then there is me. I grew up in Texas. That’s all. I’m useless. But I often take pictures with people who wear cowboy hats.

We cook crawfish, potatoes, corn, onions and garlic. (By “we” I mean Paul) After they are cooked, we dump them out on the table. And people dig in. And this year the crawfish (aka mudbugs & crawdads) were huge this year. We get them flown in live from Louisiana every year.

Well the party was a huge hit again this year. We are already taking notes for next year. If you want an invite…comment on this post.

A pity party.

Why? Because you’re the only person who will show up, the only food available will be high in calories and it’ll make you fat and it’s inevitable that you’ll drink excessively and feel like ass the next day.

Sadly, they are the easiest parties to throw.  But that doesn’t mean you should attend them. They suck. That’s why it’s important to stop them.

Lately I have spent a lot of time crying. Bawling actually. These tears aren’t because I’m attending my own pity party. These tears are over the sadness others are facing. Some of these stories involve people I don’t even know. Yet I am so moved by their stories that my heart gets super heavy. I can’t help but to send positive thoughts their way.

The upside: It helps me to think of how truly lucky I am. I have my life, my health, a beautiful, healthy daughter, a home, a fabulous career, a smile, a wonderful family, many friends, a sense of humor, a car, food on my table (well, technically at Porcupine  - my local pub) and so many more things to be grateful for. After realizing what I have especially when others are faced with such tough times, attending a pity party sounds ridiculous.

The saying below is a reminder of what is important to me…

Would they come to my funeral? More thinking…

How would I plan my funeral? A lot of people say they just want a big party where everyone laughs, tells stories, drinks, dances and celebrates the life of the deceased. If you attend, you’ll probably get a free t-shirt…

Not me. I want everyone to attend, even those of you who I haven’t met. I also want you to cry hard. Sob uncontrollably, actually. All of you. Because I mean that much to you and you’ll miss me, damn it! Don’t get the wrong idea. I’m not going anywhere anytime soon. And if you’re now crying right now because I’m not planning to die soon, then you aren’t really a good friend and should get off my blog right now!

Between the crying I want you to tell stories. But only the ones that I’d be proud of, not the embarrassing shit. No mentioning the time I threw up after drinking too much. (Notice how I made it seem like there was only one time?) Definitely don’t mention the time I had my skirt blown up over my shoulders while crossing the a downtown street on a windy day during the busy lunch hour and just that day I forgot to wear panties. (See how that sounds like it happened only once, too?) Probably shouldn’t mention the time I got a speeding ticket on the way to traffic school to take care of a speeding violation. To be fair, that really only happened once. And totally off limits is the time a lover’s male part was sprained in the act. Come to think of it, though, that is probably more his issue, so you can actually talk about that one. Ladies, if you hear a pop, know he is in pain!

I don’t want flowers sent to my funeral. I want them sent now. Can’t enjoy them when I’m dead. I prefer tulips and Gerbera daisies. Huge bouquets. Thanks.

I want my funeral in a park on a sunny day. But don’t worry about the weather, I’ll be taking care of that, being a little closer to the guy in charge than any of you on that particular day.

Also, I DON’T want drinking at the funeral. This may surprise some of you. There will be plenty of bar bills my family will already be left with after my passing plus I’m not there to enjoy it. You guys can get your own drink, on your own time. In fact, you should probably just buy me a drink now so you won’t miss it the day I’m dead.

And please make sure I’m cremated. There is no way you’re getting me in a little box in a cute outfit for nobody to see. Save the outfit. Also, save the boobs. Really…have them removed. (Then donate them to a flat chested woman who wants a great rack.) Save the plot space. I want my ashes spread at the top level of Horton Plaza. It’s an outdoor mall in downtown San Diego and I’ve always loved it there. If you happen to be shopping there on that day, don’t question the muck falling from the sky. It’s me.

If you don’t follow these rules I’ll haunt you. Even those who I haven’t met in person because I’ll know who you are with my special death powers.

Back to the party. I do them well. I mingle. I chat. It’s where I thrive. Plus I wore a hot little dress that makes me smile. Towards the end of the evening (translates to consumption of lots of alcohol) I was pulled aside to meet another group of people. This group happened to be a small group of men. Not small in size, they were regular sized men. We were all making idle chit chat about the weather, the party, the cute engaged couple, living in other cities, traveling, whatever. Then out of the blue one man blurted out (directly to me) “I’m married.”  This comment was so out of place and odd that it felt like time stopped and the room got super quiet.  I responded with, “I’m single.” I could have added, “dumbass” but it didn’t go with my dress. 

So my question is this..

Why did he say it?

The only explanation I can come up with is this.  He heard me say, “Can you unzip my dress?” when I really said something like “Canoe near Madras?”. Although I’m certain that canoeing never came up in conversation or it would have been my cue to excuse myself to grab another glass of wine.