tweener

I stopped over at Macy's for a few minutes this morning to see if I could find anything to wear to Dave's grandmother's funeral tomorrow. Oh, save your tears and condolences. I never really liked her anyway. It was hard to. She didn't speak to anyone. She just sat there and stared and watched gameshows. She didn't hug you back if you embraced her. She didn't fulfill my concept of "Grandmother" or "Woman" or "Nice Person" so I didn't allow her a place in my heart. All she was to me was the lady who took up space at family functions and broke the heart of my mother-in-law and her siblings and their children time and time again. Now it's all just a mad scramble to give her a nice parting since she was too cranky and miserable to do anything nice for her while she was still breathing. At least I get a free day off of work. And ten demerits for being such a horrible person with a cold shriveled black heart.

And here is where this is all about me. I like to be overdressed for everything. Except work. And weekends. There is nothing that pleases me more than being 7% flashier than everyone in the room. It feeds my inner Hollywood.
And there is nothing I dislike more than wearing black. I like to waltz right in the parlor in something eggplant. Or navy. Deep chocolate brown. Maybe charcoal, but accented with something pink. I'm special dammit. I won't do what society prescribes.

So Macy's. I'm too old for the Junior Department but too young for the Missus and I'll never like that department marked Women's Wear. That is for teachers and ladies with hairs on their chins and giant underpants. I'm too fat for everything sold in odd sizes but too skinny for the stuff that runs in even sizes. It's too winter for short sleeves and too spring for long. I'm too poor for full price but too snobby for the junk left on clearance. Not only is it totally picked over, but all that is left is chintzy garbage in sizes 2 or 12. What about the rest of us? What about me? All I want to do is go to this damn funeral and look adorable and not wear something I already have and buy something I'll wear again. Aren't I entitled? Don't I deserve this? All I wanted was a nice aubergine hued shirt dress with a nice thick belt- with 3/4 length sleeves and in a fabric that cinched but didn't pinch that would look awesome with my black boots. Or my camel colored ones. Then again, I might have to step on the grass if we dump the old lady in the ground tomorrow, and my camel ones are suede and I'm not ruining those boots. So I'll wear my black ones for the funeral and then maybe Dave and I will drop by a swanky bar after everything is over and I'll change into my camel ones and unbutton the top button and put on a push-up bra and I'll look super hot and really get my money's worth out of the dress that doesn't seem to exist.

Yarrrgh.

I'm such an asshole.

I'm going to stop in at Urban Outfitters at lunch and check out a dress I saw on Courtney's blog. She wore it on a date, which makes it perfect for me to wear to a funeral. I mean, I'll be there with my husband. And without Jake. And there will be a nice dinner. Perfect.

On to deeper things.

Dave and I have decided not to involve Jake in this funeral stuff.

Jake went to Dave's other grandmother's funeral. But he was just two weeks old and didn't know better. I spent most of the whole ordeal in the limo, with my shirt off. And in the reception hall, with my shirt off. And at Kat Kat's, with my shirt off. Jake spent most of it eating. Dave did the hard stuff.
Jake went to my grandfather's funeral. But he had just turned one. He thought he was at a big party where everyone that knew me when I was that old wanted to meet him and my Poppa was sleeping in the back of the room.
Now that Jake is a month and eight days from turning three, I don't think it's the right time for all this.
I don't want him to see his aunts carrying on like a bunch of lunatics. I don't want him to see his grandmother cry.
I don't want him to run around like a little jackass in the entry hall of the funeral parlor.
I don't want him riding in a limo without a carseat. (Please be warned, if you click there you may cry. Severed heads are in that link. That link takes you to the reason I do not allow my child in a limo. Or a partybus. Or a conversion van. Or anything. He is lucky I allow him on the citybus.)
I don't want him asking questions about the things people do while grieving.
I refuse to explain the concept of afterlife to him, or that there is such a thing as a time after your life.
I don't want to explain the pomp and circumstance surrounding the Catholic Mass.

I'm especially not ready to deal with my baby asking me if I'm going to die. If he's going to die. If his daddy is going to die. If anyone is going to die. I just want to let him be carefree for as long as possible.