The anniversary of the afternoon I shot out of my mother’s birth canal is this week.
For some reason, my mother felt this was the appropriate time to take a tour of the cemetery to pick out our family burial plot.
There are possible more morbid ways to ring in another year of life.
We could have gone casket shopping:
Or attended a slideshow lecture on organ putrefaction.
You will thank me for this.
I haven’t been excited about my birthday for awhile. My knees are creakier, my memory is shoddier and my knees are creakier.
My husband says “Well, it’s better than the alternative.”
Now I know the alternative will be a hole on a hill or a hole near the main thoroughfare.
My mother wanted to know what my dying self preferred. I tried to imagine where I’d like to be once I shuffled off this mortal coil.
Speaking of cremation, did you know you that you can get an urn in the likeness of your head?
Not the slightest bit creepy.
I’m shocked that Hugo has inserted himself into this moment. He seems to think he has the final decision over what happens to me in the end.
My husband is right. Getting older is wayyyyyyyyy better.
At this moment of publishing Speaker7 is even closer to her demise. What a better way to spend her remaining days, but writing a daily post as a member of the Nano Poblano Team?
Speaker7 