death

Here Lies Speaker7

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.

birthdaydeath

There are possible more morbid ways to ring in another year of life.

We could have gone casket shopping:

casketshoppingOr attended a slideshow lecture on organ putrefaction.

You will thank me for this.

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.

urnthinkingSpeaking of cremation, did you know you that you can get an urn in the likeness of your head?

Not the slightest bit creepy.

Not the slightest bit creepy.

hugolikesI’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.

hugoplansMy 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?

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RIP Bully McMully

Bully McMully is dead.

That’s not his name. His name has been changed to protect the living–mainly me. His name was something that didn’t rhyme, but we changed it so that it did. We thought it was clever, the “we” being me, my brother J and my two cousins K1 and K2.

Bully McMully had a strong presence in our lives in the late 1970s. If I was anything like Angie Z, I could tell you a blow-by-blow account of our dealings with Bully McMully and provide photographic evidence, but my memory is just a giant sinkhole of bits and pieces of things I likely made up or saw on after-school specials, and should not be trusted. It took a lot of therapy to realize I had not grown up in a little house on a prairie. The only way I know for certain that Bully McMully existed is because his obit ran today in our local newspaper.

It’s an odd feeling to see a childhood bully’s name in the obituaries. But there it was.

And it was so sparse. No mention of what he did or what and whom he loved.

He lived in a house that bordered a section of my grandparent’s backyard. J, K1, K2 and I would play there unsupervised. Where were the parents? It was the 1970s. No parents, no car seats–heck, no seatbelts. Halloween? Go wherever. Take that candy from strangers.

Bully McMully would yell things at us. His bratty little sister Bully-in-training would yell things at us. He appeared to be 100 years old, but was likely in his teens. As anyone knows, for a child, anyone older is 100.

He looked like this:

Must. Crush. Children.

One day, we yelled back at his little sister. He was nowhere in sight. Possibly we felt protected by the invisible barrier of the yard or the fact our grandparents were somewhere in the same city if not the same vicinity as us–when suddenly Bully McMully appeared behind us, and grabbed my much younger brother by the throat and hurled him through a tree. That very last part might not have happened.

I asked my brother today what propelled us to yell things at Bully McMully’s sister knowing full well we could be in for an ass-kicking. He had no idea. Nor any memory of the throat grabbing. He’s more useless than me.

I think the main reason we did it is because we were odd. We invented strange games like “Drug Dealers.” I pushed weed, and had a hefty supply since maple samaras were the stand in for my chronic. I collected fistfuls in my sweaty hands just to get one eensy weensy black beauty, the red, likely poisonous berry found on a yew tree, which was hawked by my cousin K2. Let me be the first to say that none of our parents were actual drug dealers.

We played “Slaves,” a game that consisted of me and K2 doing whatever our older siblings ordered. “Stay on the back porch.” Why? “Do it slave!” We spied on the Baptist church that also bordered a section of the backyard. My familiarity with church was as such: It happened on Sundays. It lasted 15 minutes. You got there late, stood in the back and left early. K1 & K2 didn’t attend.

These people went to church all the time(!). Obviously something was afoot. It’s a cult, announced K1. Being the oldest, K1 knew everything so we decided her plan to infiltrate the church made sense. We lied down in the grass to conceal ourselves, and waited until the people entered the church. Then we ran to the door, gave it a half-hearted tug, and ran shrieking back to the grass.

So we likely thought taunting a bully’s sister was a good idea in the same vein a worm circus is a good idea. It seems to make sense to throw a bunch of worms on a slide on the hottest day in July and leave them be so they could “practice” their circus act, but really it just gets you shriveled or choked by someone much bigger and stronger.

I guess now I will never know the cause of our cantankerous relationship with Bully McMully, but one thing’s for certain.

It is never too late to investigate a church.

Deep Dark Sex Secrets 1 through 1,890

My life is full of regrets.

I was thinking how much I do not want to be on a bed of death, lamenting all the things I should have done, but didn’t.

I had not seen Maury Povich’s eponymous show since Vicki slept with her sister’s boyfriend Jamal and Jamal’s brother Dominque and posed this simple question:  Is my sister’s boyfriend or his brother my baby’s dad?

I never did find out the answer to that question.

Regret.

Speaker7's last words

Speaker7 dies

Today’s Maury did not pose a question, but a statement of fact: “The tests will uncover your deep dark sex secret.” I would get my answers today…well, not to Vicki’s dilemma–that will forever haunt me–but the answers to some of life’s greatest mysteries.

Deep Dark Sex Secret #1: (editor’s note: this actually could be deep dark sex secret #17 or #1,825 because Speaker7 missed the first six minutes of the show. Regret.)

“She was more like a beauty queen from a movie scene. . . but the kid is not my (daughter)”

Kristina has two children with her husband David, but David doesn’t believe he’s the father of Chantilly because he thinks Kristina cheated on him with her ex-husband Tony.

Kristina is angry. David thinks she’s a cheater. They both tell their stories in a very natural non-reading-cue-card-like kind of way.

I chew my fingernails down to the knuckles……Maury pulls up the flap on his endless supply of manila envelopes….I reach up to wipe the sweat pouring from my forehead…

“In the case of Chantilly,” Maury intones. “David you are the father.”

I black out.

When I come to, I learn there are more deep-dark-sex-secret uncovering to uncover.

Deep Dark Sex Secret #2: Electric Boogaloo

A one-night stand turned into one DNA dispute.

Maria had sex with Andrew one time. Maria screams everything she says as if she is trying to make herself heard over a sandblaster. She screams at the audience to “LOOK AT MY BABY!!!!! LOOK AT MY GIRL!!!!” She screams at Andrew “I HOPE YOUR PENIS FALLS OFF!!!!!!!!”

Maury pulls out the envelope. I get into a fetal position next to the couch.

“In the case of Drucilla,” Maury intones. “Andrew you are NOT the father.”

I began to convulse as a thin trickle of urine puddles next to my twitching body.

I wonder if my system can take anymore deep-dark-sex-secret uncovering when Maury cuts directly to the next story after Maria ran backstage screaming “I’M SORRY!!!!!”

Deep Dark Sex Secret #3: Revenge of the Sith

I change my outfit and swallow four Xanax. I go to my happy place in my head as Maury introduces April. April thinks her fiance Walt and her cousin Laureen are having “sex on each other.” She has seen “sex stains” on Walt’s boxers although Walt claims they were just from an accident. Lovely, lovely love.

Maury has the lie detector results. Before he can intone them, my heart seizes in my chest. I can feel a blood vessel explode inside my head. I flop off the couch onto the floor.

I believe I died a few seconds before being revived by Maury’s clear delivery that Walt is a liar. The boxer stains were sex stains after all.

Incredible, riveting storytelling.

My only regret is that I didn’t DVR it.

Regret.