Right about now, March should start going out like a lamb.
I cannot explain how disgusting it is outside. It's times like these when I would legit kill to live in a tropical land filled with vegetation and happiness. I'm pretty sure it would make everything better. Currently, it is snowing/raining/sleeting/and hailing in delightful increments of five to ten minutes. The first day I can wear a tank top I will be running around screaming praises to the Lord.
A word about the Lord:
I've never told this story, but it's pretty hilarious. If you are religious or easily offended, stay away.
When my grandmother died in September it was decided without much thought that my dad would give the eulogy. We all loved Nana, but she and Dad had a special relationship. He truly idolized her and became her primary caretaker at the end of her life. The first few weeks after she died, he really suffered--not only because he missed his mom, but also because I don't think he knew what to do with his spare time.
I've mentioned my dad before, but it's impossible to really paint a picture unless you've met him. You don't even really need to know him--one encounter is enough to understand the insanity that is my father.
The night before Nana's wake my parents were up until about 4am writing the eulogy. Let me rephrase that--my dad was writing the eulogy, my mother was offering suggestions, my dad was yelling about my mother's suggestions, my mother was making him write them down anyway and so on. I listened to this all night unable to yell at them because I was afraid Nana would be pissed. (Has anyone else gone through this after the death of a loved one? For weeks I was convinced that Nana was watching me and judging every move I made.)
The wake and funeral were extremely surreal. Weeks after being cheated on and dumped and days after watching my grandmother get sick and die, I was expected to be on my A-game. We all were. (Side note--my mother's hair was just starting to grow back. In case you were wondering, it's really annoying to hear "Your Mom's head looks so CUTE!" over and over again while you are trying to mourn the death of your grandmother. Scratch that. It's annoying always.)
I only remember bits and pieces of the ceremony. My immediate family walked down the aisle together to "Morning Has Broken" and I stared at everyone, secretly wondering if it was all a sick joke. After a few minutes of religious ranting, my dad was asked to speak.
About three minutes had gone by when I realized that he might ramble for quite some time. Normally, I would be annoyed with him, but this was his mother--and his only opportunity to release emotion publicly to his friends and family. Rant away, Dad, I remember thinking. If anyone tries to shut me up at your funeral, I won't be happy. At that moment, the priest rose and started walking towards him. I dug my fingernails into my cousin, Michael's, thigh. No. The priest reached him and whispered in his ear.
To the priest: "EXCUSE ME? OH. OKAY. SURE."
To the audience: "The priest has just informed me that I need to stick to the script."
My jaw dropped and I whipped around in my seat to make eye contact with my mom and then Liz. Probably not my finest moment seeing as I was sitting in the front row and everyone could see me. When my dad finished a few minutes later, he sat down next to me and hissed, "FREAKING BASTARD."
In church.
At my grandmother's funeral.
Freaking. Bastard.
If Nana really was watching...
Later, in the limo, someone brought up the situation.
"Freaking BASTARD is probably out back screwing some altar boy!!!!"
Yup.
Yup.
My mom and I burst out laughing and then, realizing how inappropriate the statement was, spent the rest of the ride convulsing as we tried to suppress our laughter. You should have seen the look on my aunt's face. She's been a teacher at a Catholic school for thirty years.