Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.
Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.
Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
I was out of town for a couple weeks. Funeral planning and Cherry Festivaling and my sister took me to see Eric Clapton, which was, you know, really cool. She does that - she says or does something brutally hurtful and then redeems herself by saying or doing something completely unexpected and nice.
I had to return to Chicago. I'm still unemployed, I'm not even on the telemarketing schedule, and I'm about a month away from not being able to pay my mortgage. So I have stuff to do. Box up the rest of my stuff, donate what won't fit in my storage unit and then wait for what happens when you can't find a job and can't pay your mortgage. I've never been in this situation so I'm not exactly sure what happens, but I'm sure it's unpleasant and I'm sure it happens quickly. My real estate agent told me foreclosures are not taking as long as they were a few months ago. A sad reflection on society: Banks and mortgage companies have dealt with so many foreclosures in the past few years that they've finally organized personnel and systems to handle foreclosures more efficiently. My real estate agent said it was taking 6 months to a year for most people to be kicked out of their homes but now, especially in the city, it's happening in about two months. So. Yeah. I guess that's what happens next.
So, you know, I wasn't returning home to happy times.
I picked up my mail from the post office. Three job rejection post cards. (It's unusual to get these - it used to be SOP but not many companies do this anymore so that was kind of surprising.) A couple bills. A few postcards from friends on vacation. Some catalogs. And a mailing tube.
A mailing tube? Really? For me? I didn't order anything. Who sent it to me?! What is it?! What could it be?!
I haven't seen him or heard from him since the date. I'll be honest, if he called me after the date and wanted to see me again I was thinking I'd go out with him again. I mean, you know, I can't be picky and maybe under all that surface stuff he's a good guy. The fake esoterica might be getting in the way of his sense of humor. And maybe under all the phony façade of catalog trendiness he's in possession of an actual personality. But, as was made obvious on our date, we're not right for each other. And I presumed he was as sure of that as I was because I never heard from him.
That is until the tube arrived.
You might think I was so overcome with excitement that I ripped open that mailing tube right there in the post office.
I didn't.
Because I wasn't overcome with excitement. I was filled with apprehension. What's The World's Most Affected Man sending me...in a tube?
I got home, went through all the mail, read the postcards a few times, read the catalogs cover to cover, took out the garbage, did some laundry, checked job boards, applied to a couple jobs, packed my sock drawer in a box for storage, threw out some socks I deemed unworthy of storage space, took off the nail polish on my toenails, and took out my neighbor's dirty cat box litter.
The mailing tube sat there getting more conspicuous by the minute. Every time I re-read a postcard, did another chore, went to the bathroom, it loomed more ominously. It even started to look bigger. It became an entity.
I shored up my courage, gritted my teeth and opened it because I was afraid to go to bed with it sitting there all ominous and unopened.
Sidebar. I know there are people out there thinking, "What an insensitive bitch! She goes around saying how lonely and Mayor of Singlton-y she is and a guy sent her something and she's all callously indifferent. Pffft. She should be jumping up and down, ripping open that tube and calling all her friends about whatever awesomeness The Most Affected Man in the World sent her. I have no patience for her and her singleness. She needs to just shut up and be happy a man is interested in her." I understand that sentiment. I said those exact words to myself. But ye gads, you didn't see this guy's house, his traveling electronic thermocooled wine carrier with carrying harness. Or the forced esoterica in his house. And his lack of sense of humor. And apparent unawareness about himself. It's not about me being too picky. It's about me being totally wrong for this guy.
Okay, so I gingerly opened the mailing tube. It's from The World's Most Affected Man so anything could have popped out of there.
I saw a piece of parchment rolled up in the tube and something at the bottom of the tube. I slowly tilted the tube and out slid a USB drive. I'd plug that in later. Maybe. Let's see what's up with the rolled up parchment.
Of course The Most Affected Man in the World sent me a parchment scroll. Sheesh, you would expect anything less from him?
It was tied with a piece of twine with coin and a bead threaded through it. It looked like one of the things he uses to tie up his pony tail. Huh. Okay. I have an old Scrunchy I can part with, I could send him a response scroll bound with a Scrunchy.
When was the last time someone sent you a scroll? Yeah, it's been a while for me, too.
You know what's coming. Parchment. The twine-coin-bead hair tie thing. The Most Affected Man in the World.
He wrote a poem, in calligraphy, on the parchment and adorned it with what appeared to be Sumi ink drawings.
It wasn't an ode, thankfully. Or a sonnet, even more thankfully. But nor was it Haiku. It was a five stanza poem. The iambic pentameter was complexly studied and measured. Of course it is. He is, after all, The Most Affected Man in the World. And yes, yes, I noticed the iambic pentameter, which makes me almost as affected as he is. But: I'm not the one painstakingly writing a poem in calligraphy on a parchment scroll.
Okay. I'm just going to say it, rip it off fast like taking off a bandage.
The gist of the poem was that he was asking me to go to Lilith with him.
You heard me.
Lilith.
The Lilith Fair.
Though not surprising. Of course The Most Affected Man in the World has tickets to Lilith Fair.
I'm sure he's a feminist. Deeply devoted to women's issues. Probably took an Emily Dickinson course as his literature elective in college so he can better understand what it's like to be a woman.
But really. Lilith? Me? I mean, you know me, do I give off any remote impression that I might be the Lilith Fair type?
I looked at the lineup. Huh. Well. You know. I like a couple early Heart songs. And that pretty much covers my interest in the music on offer at this year's Chicago Lilith Fair.
And I don't like those few Heart songs enough to spend a deliriously hot day baking in an outdoor arena in the middle of a cornfield an hour and 30 minute drive from Chicago with Lilith Fairies. I mean, you know, rock on, sisters, girl power and all that. I'm pro girl rock in general, but an entire festival devoted to "women's music" doesn't really interest me. Plus the Chicago lineup is kind of lame. And it's in a cornfield. Or, well, next to one. It's on The Prairie, the official Prairie. And even if they magically transform it to a blissful oasis of harmony and empowerment, it's still Lilith.
Can you see me at Lilith? With The Most Affected Man in the World?
Me, either.
It was at this point I grew anxious about that USB drive. He alluded to it in the poem. Good grief, what's on that thing?
Shored up more stamina and courage and took a look at the drive's contents.
Playlists. Of course there were playlists. MP3s featuring all the Lilith musicians' music. Lilith Music. Awww crap.
I mean, it's a nice gesture, of course it is, but...even if I really liked this guy isn't this all a bit much considering we only went on one not so great date (wherein booze had to be applied to make conversation happen) and I haven't heard from him in a month?
And then I listened to a couple of the MP3s.
It was now 1 AM. I was tired and depressed and in my general state of fear that I'm in all the time these days. Based on the file names I expected to hear some Mary J. Blige.
Picture this: Me. 1 AM. Tired. Depressed. Unemployed. Soon to be homeless. Scared. On the heels of planning my mother's funeral and choosing a cemetery plot for myself. Curled up fetal in my bed, alone, in a dark bedroom, a siren and the distant roar and whistle of the L breaking the night silence. I load up a little music to keep me company and tune out the nagging fear and anxiety-ridden voices in my head. I hit play on Mary J. Blige.
And a loud, male voice starts reciting a lesson on the Kabbalah and the origins of Lilith. It would remind you of the Late Lament intro to Nights in White Satin. "Breathe deep, the gathering gloom..." (Speaking of pretentious affectations, have I ever mentioned that I don't like the Moody Blues?) I thought, "That's kind of a weird intro on a Mary J. Blige song, but okay, whatever."
And then it hit me. I recognized the voice.
Oh yes. It was The Most Affected Man in the World. And he recorded informative or inspirational introductions to each of the songs. He removed all doubt about whether or not he's a feminist. He most definitely is and he most definitely takes women's issues very seriously. And he talks about women's sexuality and their bountiful wombs and the succulent abyss of joy. Oh yes, he actually used the terms "bountiful womb" and "succulent abyss of joy." And apparently with a straight face because I didn't hear a hint of humorous inflection when he said it. More than once. And it was swutting freaky. Okay? It's freaky. Especially in the middle of the night. Alone. In my bedroom.
Up to that point I was wondering how to let the guy down easy. Prior to hearing the oral recitations on the condition woman I was thinking, "Before the scroll arrived I would have gone out with him again, so maybe if I just excuse the scroll I'll go out with him again, but not to Lilith. Maybe I can give him a call and explain that I was out of town and just got back, already have plans the day of Lilith..."
But after he used the terms "bountiful womb" and "succulent abyss of joy" there was no way I was ever going to see this guy again. And, no, no, just just because of his affected vernacular. If we'd been dating and having sex and discussing having children for, I dunno months or years, then I'd be sort of okay with him talking about my succulent abyss of joy and bountiful womb. I'd even be okay with him talking about my vagina and eggs. But we went on one date. One not so great date. And here he is alluding to sex and baby making. Okay, sure, only in general terms. You're right, he didn't specifically mention my succulent abyss of joy and bountiful womb, you know, by name. He did refer to them only in general terms. He might have just been all hopped up high on Lilith fervor and so inspired was he that he felt compelled to wax poetic about vaginas and ovaries in general (hey, don't we all). And record his thoughts and send them to a woman he took on one date a month ago.
Sidebar, again: Yes, okay, yes. I do appreciate the effort he took. Duly noted, gratitude given. He didn't just go the extra mile, he ran an entire marathon. And yes, I do feel guilty thinking of him toiling away in his library at his replica King John Magna Carta desk, dipping his authentic reproduction Benjamin Franklin quill into a certified replica Dickens inkwell. Scribing original poetry to woo a lady, pausing reflectively, thoughtfully, to work out the perfect iambic pentameter seeking higher meaning from the view to his sundial and Zen garden through the window, then in a fit of inspiration getting it just right, feverishly penning his poetry, hoping she'll notice the care and precision of each word. Using just the right calligraphy style - not too formal, not too casual, on just the right parchment - delicate but strong. Then retiring to the studio to adorn it with illustrations, using the special ritual Sumi brushes received as a gift from a master brush artist to ink cranes, turtles, rabbits and delicate bamboo leaves - honor, protection, fertility and longevity. (And you thought I was a callous bitch. Yes I noticed, I get it. He's very into symbolism and aesthetics. And I happen to speak a little esoteric. Not fluent on his level, more tourist esoteric.) Yes, I do feel guilty dismissing him like this but c'mon. I mean, it's a bit much for a second date, n'est-ce pas? (Speaking (again) of stupid affectations, I'm peppering conversations with n'est-ce pas. By the way. I know it's obnoxious but for some reason I've been doing it lot lately. I can't seem to catch or help myself. I dunno.) Yes, yes, I have considered all of his effort and I am grateful that someone cares enough to bother to care. But, it's kind of a bit much, kind of creepy, kind of like Creepy Perfume Guy, n'est-ce pas?
So now I have to either just ignore the scroll and whatever you call was on that USB drive or let him know I don't want to go. We all know the right thing to do is let him know I don't want to go. He did put a lot of effort into the, um, scroll and, um, recordings. And he was kind enough to invite me to a music festival. I have to give him the courtesy of declining his offer.
Or, I could go with him. To Lilith. And talk about my succulent abyss of joy and bountiful womb.
What say you? Am I being too picky? Should I embrace this guy and his affectations? Render unto him my succulent abyss of joy?
Post-edit: Someone asked me if he'd invited me to Lollapalooza or Pitchfork instead of Lilith if I'd go - if it's merely Lilith that's the real issue. Assuming the invitation came via a phone call or email, and there was no scroll or creepy Moody Blues-esque spoken word song introductions containing the terms "bountiful womb" and "succulent abyss of joy," maybe, maybe I'd go. But that does bring up another point. Music festivals are long. An entire day and evening, 12 hours-ish or more when you factor commute and entry line time. That's a lot of time to spend with someone on a second date, especially someone you didn't hit it off with that well on the first date. But it's a moot point, n'est-ce pas? He did ask me to Lilith and he did do so via a parchment scroll bound with one of his twine-bead-coin hair ties and more to the creepy point, he did send me mp3s of him reciting educational and inspirational introductions to songs. Introductions alluding to sex and pregnancy using the terms "bountiful womb" and "succulent abyss of joy." Both the Lollapalooza and Pitchfork line-ups are pretty good this summer, but even so, they're not good enough to endure spending 12+ hours with The Most Affected Man in the World who unironically, unsarcastically, unhumorously uses the terms "bountiful womb" and "succulent abyss of joy." Right?
Monday, July 12, 2010
Hi, it's me again, Trillian, asking for some advice.
This time I need advice on advice.
Someone generously offered advice and suggestions for my employment/foreclosure/relationship issues. The advice came with some judgment and opinion, which I respect. Accept. Forgive. Heal. Peace. Love.
The opinion was that all of my problems - being laid off, not being able to find a new job, losing my home, no man interested in me -stem from my agnosticism and open candor on my lack of faith in God and "Jesus jokes." God and Jesus are mad at me because I question and mock Them and They've turned me over to Satan. According to the advice giver, people who are unemployed and losing their homes are being punished by God and Satan is blocking our progress for new jobs and homes.
The advice given is that I need to accept Jesus into my heart and trust in God and then They will solve all my problems. They will take care of Satan for me, remove his barriers to my progress. It will be miraculous if I just Believe. The advice giver went on to say that the second I do this God, Jesus and President Obama will take care of me in ways I cannot imagine. "Riches will flow and love will envelope me."
I'm really and truly not being sarcastic when I say this, I swear this is an honest, heartfelt question: God, Jesus and President Obama are going to give me a job, pay my mortgage and find me a man?
Let's say this miraculous mystical lifting of burdens happens when you let Jesus into your heart and put your faith in God. Um, don't you kind of have to really believe? Don't They know if you have questions and doubts and can't apply rational logic to what reads, in places, like a really wacky fairy tale?
I'm guessing it's not enough to just say, "Oh, okay, I need to let Jesus into my heart and have faith in God. Jesus, come on into my heart, God, my faith is in your hands." I think you kind of need to, you know, really believe, fully and without question. And I don't think you can force that. I think it's called a divine calling. There's usually a catalyst or a quiet moment where it all just whooshes over a person. At least that's how it appears to me when people suddenly get religion. And honest, really, I think that rocks. But it's a very personal thing that cannot be forced. Or contrived. Or manipulated.
I'm not mocking faith. I have great faith in faith. People who have it, man, I mean, it rocks for them. I respect them and their beliefs. But here's the thing. I've said this, publicly, several times, Jesus, God, Mary, the whole family is welcome into my heart and living room any time. They don't even need to knock, the door is open and they can make Themselves at home, help Themselves to anything they want, have Their merry way with me. I'd welcome Them and it. Life(?) would be a lot easier for all of us if They'd enter into my heart and take the wheel for a while. (Jesus, the Brita pitcher in the fridge would make a nice batch of wine, I'm just sayin'. Ooops, there I go with the Jesus jokes again.)
But unless/until I have some divine moment of enlightenment all I can do (I think) is be open to it, wait for it, and accept it if/when it happens. That's the best I can do without being a hypocritical liar. And my understanding is that Jesus and God aren't big on hypocritical liars. My take on it is that it's better to be honest about your feelings and questions, admit them, I mean, They allegedly know all anyway, no point in pretending you don't have questions. Better to be honest about your questions than to blindly follow even though you have questions and concerns, and yes, doubts, just go along with the flock because you want to believe and want Jesus and God to think you believe. If God and Jesus are as all knowing as suggested won't they be annoyed by religious poseurs?
And that's what I'd be: A religious poseur hoping for divine intervention in my time of personal struggle.
If I wake up tomorrow heart all filled with Jesus and God (and apparently President Obama) lighting my life, you know, awesome in the most pure sense, awe. You'll be the first to know.
But if not, what's the real deal with Jesus and God punishing me by having me laid off, losing my home and letting Satan block my chances for a new job and man? Are the 14.6+ million of us unemployed people really being punished by God and Jesus and thwarted by Satan? Is that how the lay-off selection process is made? In HR offices across the country (and world) is the decision based on religion? God's people get to retain their jobs, Satan's people get laid off? And repented sinners get to find new jobs and keep their homes while the still wayward sheep get thwarted by Satan?
And can someone explain to me if and how President Obama is in cahoots with Jesus and God? Does Jesus give Obama a naughty and nice list?
But probably my bigger questions are 1) Are we really supposed to look to God and Jesus (or Obama, for that matter) for earthly possessions and monetary gain? 2) Do they really deliver the goods? (I thought They are all about the deeper intrinsic types of wealth - wisdom, insight, enlightenment, peace, understanding, you know, spiritual sorts of things.) 3) Aren't greed and sloth sins? Expecting God, Jesus, (and Obama) to find me a job and pay my mortgage seems like the lazy way out and kind of greedy, particularly when so many people are unemployed and homeless and especially when compared to the people in the Third World who are starving and dying and being slaughtered by dictatorial regimes. My problems are insignificant and asking - expecting - God, Jesus and Obama to intervene and pay my mortgage seems really greedy and selfish. Somehow I think They have bigger fish to fry.
I can see asking for guidance, hoping for a nudge to the right path to a job, or a bolt of inspiration on where to meet the right guy, but sitting back and expecting them to do all the work? Yeah, that doesn't sit well with my conscience or what I read in the Bible. (yes, for the bizillionth time, I've read it) But maybe I'm completely wrong, I must be, because obviously I'm still unemployed and still going to go into foreclosure and still the Mayor of Singleton.
I know this sounds sarcastic, especially coming from me, but I'm honestly asking for advice on this advice because I don't fully understand it.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
So now my mother's all bent out of shape with me because I want to be cremated.
What did I say about pre-planning a funeral providing peace of mind? I might want to amend that opinion.
My mother is all hopped up high on her post-pre-planning euphoria. She says a weight has been lifted. So unburdened is she that she wants me to share in the joy of sleeping soundly in the knowledge that you have your final arrangements "taken care of."
Yes. She wants to give me a funeral. And a cemetery plot. And a gravestone.
Which led to me saying, "Thanks, but I want to be cremated."
Which she knows, she knows how I feel about this. I made up my mind when I was 8 that I was donating organs and cremating the rest. My feelings haven't changed since - in fact the older I get the more steadfast I feel about what I want done with my body when it dies.
Apparently my mother thought I'd change my mind.
Maybe if I had a husband...children. But I don't. And I won't. So why be buried somewhere, anywhere? I really do not want to be memorialized in a cemetery by myself. Walk around a cemetery sometime. I triple dog dare you to find a grave of an unmarried person over the age of 20. (Apart from military cemeteries and memorial.) Cemeteries are filled with gravestones shared by married couples. Often several generations of married couples are buried side-by-side in one big family plot. Apart from military graves that's where you are most likely to find a single person buried alone with a solitary headstone. The spinster aunt with her single headstone buried among her parents, grandparents, married siblings and married nieces and nephews with their double headstones. Sad, pitiful, conspicuous. In life as in death. I know this because I spent the better part of an afternoon walking around my parents' cemetery purposely looking for single people.
I don't want to be that person. It's difficult enough going through the living part of life as a single zero. Carving it in stone for the whole world to see long after I'm dead is not exactly comforting. It doesn't give me peace of mind. It swutting depresses me to the point of suicide which then scares me because it'll hasten the move to a cemetery in a plot all by myself with a single headstone marking the lonely, solitary existence that led me to suicide in the first place.
There is no space for me to be buried anywhere near my parents. And their cemetery is almost full. My mother inquired about single plots, and what do you know, yes, they have a few and at a reduced rate! Why the rate reduction? Because some family plots have one or two leftover spaces they're willing to sell. So a single person can glom onto some other family's plot, hitch a ride into eternal memorializing carved in stone with an entire family they don't even know, an adopted tagalong vagabond into eternity.
The two plots my mother and I looked at were in a much older section of the cemetery. One of the plots is at the end of a family plot of a very well-to-do family who spent a lot of money on a very splashy, very huge, very ornately carved, very angelic monument with their surname carved in huge, bold lettering on both sides along with a religious verse. They bought two full family plots prominently positioned by the cemetery's central monument and memorials and then they planted the gigantic family monument smack in the middle of the two plots. Then, as people died the plots were filled with headstones with the names and dates of all the generations of the family. It appears they had all sons, and it appears two of the sons had all sons because everyone buried in the family plot(s) all have the same surname. And all are couples buried side-by-side with the exception of a 22-year-old son killed in WWII. Hence the leftover single space at the end of the plot.
I could be buried with this family I don't know, next to a guy killed in WWII, mine would be the only headstone carved after 1958 and with a different last name than the rest of the clan. I mean, um, huh? While I like the stories and gossip this could generate 100 years from now as people stroll through the cemetery and speculate on the mystery woman buried with that family, it's too weird for even me.
And besides, I want to be cremated.
But that's upsetting my mother. She can't stand the thought of cremation. My dad's family goes the cremation route. It's what his family does. It's the Viking way. My mother suffers through every cremation in my dad's family cringing and getting upset over the thought of the whole process. So my dad broke tradition for my mother. He's in the ground, body embalmed, casketed and vaulted with a headstone built for two waiting for my mother to join him. Isn't that romantic.
Putting aside all the obvious conservancy and environmental aspects, there's no reason for me to take up a plot in a cemetery. No one, and I mean no one is ever going to visit my grave. Single zero means there's no one who cares enough or feels obligated enough to "tend" your grave. So why have one?
And bringing the conservancy and environmental issues back into it, save the space on a shrinking planet for something far more useful than a cemetery. (And yes, yes, on the plus side, at least many cemeteries are filled with trees and offer a peaceful place for birds and squirrels and rabbits.)
One of my friends suggested that I appease my mother by letting her buy me a cemetery plot then selling it and donating the money to the cemetery's upkeep fund. "Unless you die before her she'll never know. And if you do die before her there's no way she'll let you be cremated and she'll have the final say, so you're kind of stuck with her wishes anyway so you might as well let her buy your plot for that contingency." No denying the logic to that idea. And if it will make my mother happy, give her bonus peace of mind, then I suppose it's worth it.
Yadda yadda yadda after I go into foreclosure the only property I'll own is a cemetery plot.
I refused the plot with the prominent family. That was just too pathetic and bizarre and the plot was too prominently placed for my liking. Very showy. "We" opted for a space that's formed where the real estate of the cemetery curves, leaving a wedge shape not large enough for a family or even double plot. They can only fit in one vault so ta-dah! Perfect for a single zero.
I'm now so officially and forever single zero that I have a single cemetery plot. Clearly even my mother has given up any shred hope of me finding someone willing to marry me as well as the plan for me adopting a child or two. When even your own mother gives up on your ability to attract a mate or even adopt a child it's time to buy a cemetery plot.
The cemetery manager told us that because it's odd shaped and slightly larger than a single plot I can go nuts with a memorial monument. Lovely. Perhaps a Calder or Henry Moore?
I'm thinking of landscaping it. Planting trees, perhaps ornamental shrubbery of some sort, some annual flowers, maybe a water feature. Funny, HGTV doesn't have a show about landscaping graves and there are no diy magazines about it at the home and garden stores.
And I'm wondering if I can pitch a tent on my plot and live there. I mean, my mother bought it for me, my name is on it, it's mine, why should I only get to reap the benefits of landownership when I'm dead? And are you truly homeless if you own a cemetery plot?
