Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today
To get through this thing called life
Electric word, life, it means forever–and that’s a mighty long time.
Oh, Prince, with your velvety purple suits and phallic guitars, you speak such wisdom. Forever IS a mighty long time. Unfortunately, I’m not going to live forever. Someday I’ll be dead and gone with only
my many duckface selfies precious family photographs and my words left to carry on my legacy. So I thought I’d try my hand at writing my own eulogy so that the words keeping me alive on the internet with my loved ones are carefully selected to call up the most treasured memories. Therefore, I need to say a few words about myself, posthumously … so to speak. Or write. Whatever. You know what I mean.
Writing my own eulogy. Where do I start? This is tough. Eulogy. Eulogy. Eulogy. Now that word sounds weird because I’ve said it too many times. Ok. Stop. Focus, Jen. Write the stinking eulogy. Eulogy. Eulogy. Eu-goo-gly. Ha! “Eugoogly!!” I should have Zoolander deliver my eulogy. That would be fantastic!! But that’s too trite and cliché for a “funeral,” I suppose. It should probably be more formal.
Let’s try some poetry. That seems appropriate for an occasion as important as this. Here we go:
Roses are red,
Jen is dead,
and she couldn’t write a poem to save her life.
Ok, bad idea. Writing poems is not something I’m good at. Actually, there’s not much that I do worse than poetry.
Well, there are a few things that are at least as bad as me writing poems. I’m terrible at drawing. I can’t draw anything, really. Stick figures, maybe. On a good day. But, generally speaking, my art skills rival that of a five-year-old. You do NOT want me on your team if we’re playing Pictionary. Taboo? Yes. Charades? Sure. Just nothing involving drawing.
Since we’re talking about art, I also have no patience for crafts. Fricking crafts. They’re the bane of my existence. I hate crafts.
That’s the main reason I sent my kids to preschool. I didn’t want to have to do any of that shit–painting, gluing, glittering, making picture frames with popsicle sticks, whatever. No thank you. That’s not for me. Not even with high school students who can do that crap independently. One time I let my students make piñatas in class. Oh Em Eff Gee. It was awful. They had fun making a gooey, sticky mess. I hated it. The last student had literally just walked out of my classroom when I told those slimy paper mache carcasses “crafts will never, ever happen again in this classroom.”
While we’re on the topic of things that won’t ever happen–especially when I’m dead–I’ll never skydive, bungy jump or ride that crazy slingshot thing that they have at amusement parks. Hell, I don’t climb trees or ladders because of my fear of heights. I also don’t do scary movies. At all. Can’t even watch the trailers for them. I close my eyes, put my fingers in my ears, and say “la la la la, I can’t hear you!” I curl into the fetal position and have nightmares if I inadvertently catch part of a commercial that’s too intense. I wish I were kidding. I’m a total chicken.
Hey! Focus, Jen. This is your eulogy. Write nice memories and special things. What will people remember or say about you when you’re gone?
Oh! I know something really memorable: my singing. The good news is I never had to worry about living out of a suitcase away from my family for long periods of time while I was on my big World Tour because I have no musical talent whatsoever. Seriously. I’m awful. As in I could stop traffic singing with my windows down because drivers can’t operate a vehicle with both hands covering their ears trying to block out the sounds of my warbling. In fifth grade, for a reason that will never be fully understood by me, my family or the poor sots who had to endure the longest thirty seconds of their life, the choir teacher gave me a small solo to perform at the Christmas program. In retrospect, I have no idea what she was thinking. All I can figure is she must have been tone-deaf, which is quite a plight for a music teacher.
Another problem for a teacher: having a hard time remembering names. I’m so bad at that. Seriously. I can remember details about my students for years. I can tell someone which hour they were in my class and where they sat, but when it comes to remembering their name? Total blank. Nothing. Nada. And it’s even worse being a Spanish teacher because I have to learn two names for each student since they like to pick “authentic names” to use in class. I’ve tried mnemonics, repeatedly saying someone’s name when I meet them, making some kind of connection with someone else I know with the same name. Those rarely work.
Um, Jen?! Hi. Never mind remembering people’s names, K? You need to remember what you’re doing here. Writing a eulogy. Yes?
Sigh. Yes. Write my eulogy. Stay focused. OK. Here we go … staying focused now.
In addition to having a major case of Shit For Brains with names, I’m also terrible at staying focused and on topic. I bounce from one idea or activity to another like Frogger crossing the street. Have you seen that shirt that says “I don’t have A.D.D. Oh! Look! A chicken!”? Yah, well, that’s perfect for me. As a matter of fact, any time Hubbinator finds the remnants of a partially completed project that I apparently walked away from and forgot about (because some other shiny thing caught my eye), he asks “did you find some chickens?” My kids have started asking that too. Maybe I should write a poem about him, the kids and chickens.
There once was a guy and his wife,
They had two kids and a decent life,
She couldn’t draw or remember names,
She thought crafts were really lame,
She always found “chickens” and now she’s dead.
Never mind. I forgot. Jen + Poetry = Don’t Go There.
Another equation: Jen + Bowling = Nope. I suck at bowling. Well, that’s not completely true. I am good at bowling–with little kids … because then we can have bumpers in our lane. (Yes, I bowl in the lane with bumpers. No, that still doesn’t mean I score better than
the kids everyone else. Just shut it.) My friends like bowling with me though. I’m the entertainment factor. Like that time I went sliding head first down the lane because I tripped and fell and took to the Brunswick Boards like a slip ‘n slide. (Did you know they put oil on the lanes to make them slippery? Yah, they do. I know that now.)
Wait. What was I talking about again? Oh, that’s right. Prince’s eulogy. He was such a cool dude, may he rest in peace. I guess now we know When Doves Cry, it’s because they’re having a hard time saying goodbye to the singer formerly known as Prince then known as that symbol thing then known as Prince again. It’s time for one last drive into the sunset in that Little Red Corvette.
Boom!! Drops mike. Walks away. Totally nailed that eulogy!