A Confession of Sorts

My sister and mother were joking last night that the straw drawing has already commenced for who has to sit next to me at my uncle's funeral. There's no other way to put this but that I become emotional to the point were we can characterize it as 'carrying on' at funerals. I'm not certain why, I think it has something to do with some renegade DNA from some Irish mourner type in the family tree. It coulda been schizophrenia or borderline personality disorder so I can't bitch too much. But I can be a real treat at a funeral. The following conversation took place between the sister and the mothership last night. ::imitating me crying:: then in unison further imitating me - 'who's in the box again?' Nice. Real nice. If I were the two of them, I'd hope like hell I'm still around so someone cries over their mean asses. Of course, what makes this an even more interesting situation is I've attended more funerals than you unless you're an undertaker, also, more weddings unless you are professional celebrant of some ilk. While I was living in the hotbed of cosmopolitan living Scranton, PA, one or more of the nuns was kind enough to scrounge me up a gig turning pages for a church organist. Since I mostly attended classes at night, this was a pretty sweet gig for me, as was the fact that I had a mad crush on the organist. I got paid about $5 per service which kept me in beer money without me having to steal, but I managed to get through those services without snotting, but of course, I was drunk, oh and mesmerized by S, the organist's cleavage. Church and breasts, is there anything better?