It appears that the washing machine of death has just eaten one of our mattress pads and is refusing to let go. Gee whiz, my life is glamorous. While I wait for the repair man to come to remove the pad from the clenched jaws of the agitator, I thought I might see what's happening in the rest of the world. As it stands, not a whole lot is going on.
I've decided to join the Willed Body Program at Southwestern Medical Center and let them have what ever is left of me when I croak. I have to see how that impacts my desire to be an organ donor, too. I figure when I'm finished using my body if there are any workable parts that somebody else could use, come and get 'um. The Willed Body lady just told me they work together to make sure both programs get what they need so now I just need the boys to sign my paperwork and off it goes.
I love the idea of somebody getting to use me if they can, learn what they need to know, then shove me in the giant toaster and cremate me. No fuss, no muss. I don't want to be put in a BOX--or in the GROUND. When I die, all it will take is one phone call to the Willed Body people, and my kids never have to do another thing. No funeral home, no casket, no burial plot, no urn. Zippo. They don't even have to pay for my cremation. It's on the house. You can check the box if you want them to get your cremains back and I checked no--they didn't have a hell, no, box. What would they do with those.....put them in a litter box or the flower beds? If they want to have a service, fine, but I don't want one. Me? I'd rather have a party with great food, good friends, with everyone telling stories of all the dumb stuff I've done and laughing their heads off. That's my kind of funeral. I plan to hang around to see who comes, who doesn't, and who tells the best story. Just know this...if you lie, I'm gonna know it.
I don't know why this kind of stuff freaks people out so much. To me, it's just not that big a deal. And that's just how I see it.