Dying To Get It Done

(My family has always had a morbid sense of humor. It’s our thing. We’ve also known from a young age that our mother wants to be cremated. My step-dad isn’t as morbid as we are, and after a shopping trip our mom sits down next to us.)

Mom: “So, you know that I want to be cremated right?”

(My sisters and I nod, having known this for more than ten years.)

Mom: “Well, I don’t want to be carried around. I want you to either dump me somewhere or put me in a wall.”

Me: “So, not what we did to [Dog who was cremated].”

Mom: “Yeah, that wasn’t the best decision. Anyway, I read an article about how you can turn the ash into stone.”

Me: *who had seen an article about something similar* “Then we stick it in a sword!”

Mom: “Yeah… No. You stick it in a necklace. That way, each of you can carry me around.”

Me: “I’m totally down for that.”

Sister #1: “That’d be so weird; like, imagine you had your boyfriend who wanted to meet your parents.”

Me: *holding up fake necklace* “You’ve already met my mom! She approves!”

(My mom and sisters start to crack up.)

Sister #2: “Imagine if it was a mood necklace.”

Me: *grinning devilishly* “Here, hold this.” *hands over fake necklace* “Oh, see that color there. That brown means that my mom doesn’t approve. If the color was pink she would approve.”

(We all have a good laugh.)

Mom: “See, [Step-Dad] thought you guys wouldn’t like it.”

Sister #1: “[Mom], you know we’re morbid. Of course we like it.”

Sister #2: “So, who’s paying to have it done?”

Mom: “Can’t you wait until I’m dead?!”