I work in a fine-dining restaurant. Thanks to some recent media coverage of our head chef, the place is booked solid for two months. I am at the host stand and take a call.

Caller: “Hello, I have a reservation under [Caller’s Name] on [date]. We need to push our reservation back by a few hours.”

Me: “Sir, your reservation is for a table of eight. I am afraid we cannot accommodate such an adjustment. We are fully booked for two months.”

Caller: “Oh, well, when is the next time you can seat us?”

Me: “Our next availability is on [date].”

Caller: “But… That’s two months from now!”

Me: “Yes, sir. That’s what being fully booked for two months means.”

Caller: “But… we have to attend a funeral on that day! We didn’t know we’d need to when we booked it! Have some compassion!”

Me: “I’m sorry for your loss, but that doesn’t mean we can manifest a new table. Would you like to proceed with the new booking?”

Pause.

Caller: *Can be heard talking to someone else in the room.* “Dear, any chance we could put your mother in the ground another day?”

CONTENT WARNING: Dark Humor

My dad, with the sort of timing that is characteristic of him, died of a massive “coronary insufficiency” the morning my brother and I were due to come home from university for Christmas break. He had emotionally, verbally, and financially abused us for most of our lives and had been an alcoholic for at least half of them, so truthfully, we were more annoyed than actually grieving.

Of course, that’s not the script you run for people who don’t know you well, so when the pastor came over to do the grief counseling thing, my mom was trying not to blurt out that if he was going to pray with us, we’d prefer it to be a prayer of thanksgiving. Instead, she let him do all the comforting speeches.

My brother and I simply listened; neither of us particularly liked the pastor, either.

Pastor: “Now, have you thought about funeral arrangements?”

Mom: “No, no, I…”

Me: *Perfectly deadpan.* “Eh. We’ll give him a Viking funeral. Push him out into the lake in a rowboat and shoot flaming arrows at it.”

Brother: *Also perfectly deadpan, without missing a beat.* “We can’t do that, [My Name], the lake would catch fire.”

Pastor: *Making a show of looking at his wristwatch.* “Uh, I’ve gotta get home to my bride…”

In 2020, sadly, one of my coworkers passed away. Because of the global health crisis, the official funeral was very small and family-only, so his department threw him a celebration of life/informal funeral at a park with some of his friends and family over the weekend. I wore a simple black dress and a black face mask.

I got to the park, and right out of my car, I felt eyes on me. I quickly headed to my group, but about halfway there, a guy walked up next to me and started sweet-talking and complimenting my a**. I knew this guy; he was a coworker who clearly didn’t recognize me with a mask on. I pulled my mask down and tried to embarrass him.

Me: “Hey, [Coworker], great weather we’re having.”

Coworker: “What the h***, [My Name]?!”

He shouted so loudly that most of the party looked at us. I rolled my eyes and continued into the funeral.

After about an hour, he found me again.

Coworker: “You owe me a date for embarrassing me in public.”

Me: “Really? You’re using [Departed Coworker]’s funeral to get a date? Suck my d***.”

I made sure the surrounding people heard me. [Coworker] got a bunch of nasty looks and left shortly after.

He doesn’t work in my building, and I’m a little higher up on the food chain, so I literally have zero f***s to give about our interactions.

When my sister was seven (I was fourteen), she cut off her doll’s hair, dismembered it, and gave it a funeral, which she made all of us attend. My friend was over after school and so was made to attend, too.

Friend: “Is your sister, like, a serial killer or something?”

Me: “Nah, she’s just weird. Hey, [Sister], have you killed anyone?”

Sister: “Not to your knowledge.”

Me: *To my friend* “There, see? Nothing to worry about!”

I was working at a funeral where I watched the estranged Spanish mother of the deceased try to threaten and intimidate the young English widow. The thing is, from what I could tell, Spanish [Mother] didn’t speak English, and English [Widow] didn’t understand a word of Spanish.

Mother: *In Spanish* “You’re going to pay for taking my son away from me and from his country! I’m going to make your life miserable!”

[Widow] was just smiling and nodding. [Mother] was getting increasingly frustrated, and she finally got out something like:

Mother: *In English* “You… he… meet soon!”

[Widow] took it in a very different way than what was intended and scooped [Mother] up in a big hug.

Widow: “Thank you! I love you, too!”

[Mother] gave up and stormed off. I managed to keep my face straight long enough to pull the deceased’s brother aside and have a word. The brother rolled his eyes and assured me:

Brother: “I’ll have my mom on the first plane back to Spain. We’re letting her grieve, and this is how it’s coming out.”

I retreated to the prep room for more tissues and saw [Widow] talking to her Spanish brothers-in-law without their mother present — in perfect Spanish.

I’m reminded of some simple advice for Florida: never assume someone can speak Spanish. And never assume someone can’t speak Spanish.