Tag Archives: dark humor

Week 7

Hello, dear readers.  So it turns out that I’m knocked up.  Surprise!  I’m entering my second trimester now.  The following was written during the delirious 7th week of my pregnancy, which easily fit into the Top Five Worst Weeks of My Life.  I swear I’m not only going to write about being pregnant from here on out, but I had a bunch of venting bottled up over the past few months and managed to write a little when I wasn’t vomiting.

Oh, yeah, also, some of this might contain TMI and some nonsensical ranting ;)


All I want to do is sleep, poop, and complain.

Why yes, I am in my first trimester, however did you know?

There are a lot of unmagical things about getting pregnant, but one of the most unmagical things is that first trimester where you have ALL THE FEELS, but you can’t talk to any damn person except for the man who got you into this mess in the first place.

Okay, that’s not fair to M Fox. Half of this situation is my fault.  Something about being simultaneously nauseated and starving all the time sorta saps my magnanimity.

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Heard any good funeral jokes lately?

I had always happily envisioned myself in 50 years or so becoming a delightfully crabby old lady, hitting people with my cane and making inappropriate and salty comments at whomever I pleased, much to the horror of my children and the awe of my grandchildren.  I wanted to be known as a “tough old bird.”  I wanted people to mutter “old bat” as I passed.  I wanted Old Lady Notoriety.  Honestly, I was looking forward to it.

I mean, really, who DOESN'T want to be the Dowager Countess?

I mean, really, who DOESN’T want to be the Dowager Countess?

However, after a couple recent events, to my mild discomfort and disappointment, I’m rethinking this plan.  The second time was today at the grocery store where I was waiting patiently to get in line and some lady growled at me, “You gotta choose ONE!” in that crotchety, yet smug voice that knows that you can’t say anything about her being rude because it would be rude (Old Lady Logic).

But what kicked it off was this.  Last night I was at a nearly empty restaurant with some friends and somehow the conversation drifted to death.  I don’t even know how we got there, but it doesn’t matter.  We pretty much spent the remainder of the meal swapping funny and disconcerting death stories.  As I was rounding the bend on a particularly farcical tale, an elderly woman (with a cane, I might add) hobbled past us and interrupted me to say, “It’s funny how you find humor in death.”

Not understanding her meaning (and, with hubris, thinking she was somehow complimenting us), I responded with a disarming smile, “You have to.”

And she replied with the heaviness of age and disapproval, “Not that way.”  A phrase that she repeated a few more times as she made her way out of the restaurant.

When my face stopped burning, I muttered under my breath, “Must have hit too close to home,” which, upon reflection, was an uncharitable thing to say, but, hey, she really ruined my flow.

So this got me thinking — were we being disrespectful?  Or, more to the point, were we being too LOUDLY disrespectful?  And how long was she listening?  Because we covered a lot of ground in an hour.  My funeral stories all stem from the only funeral that I have ever experienced, that of my grandmother Hilda Mae.  Although I didn’t know my grandmother very well as an adult, she bore nine children, so I’d like to think that she had some sense of humor.  And I wasn’t making fun of HER. . . just a few incidents surrounding her death and funeral.

My grandmother at my age.

Who could make fun of this woman?
Here she is, holding up her kill,
warding off dissenters.

Aw hell, I’ll just tell you.

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