I just spent the past half hour doing the pastor’s job.  His daughter is having incredibly minor surgery today.  I don’t mean to be judgmental, but if you’re a married lady in her thirties and you’re not having anesthesia maybe you can drive your own ass home from the doctor instead of making both your parents take off work and drive four hours to bring you ice cream.   And what’s with the ice cream?  I recommend following painful medical procedures with a couple of happy hour margaritas.   Tequila dulls pain much better than butterfat.

I’m sorry: I’m in one of my periodic fits of bitterness about health care costs.  You see, I have extremely minimal and fairly useless health insurance my parents insist on lending me the money to pay for.  I used to have no insurance at all.   I also have a chronic pain condition that is, literally, a total pain in my ass this morning and its treatments are far beyond my means.  I deal.

Also, I digress.

Okay, some guy I don’t know died.  Apparently he and his wife used to go to church here several years ago.  They left amid much drama no one will describe to me, but apparently it was quite, you know, dramatic drama.  The wife decided today that she wants the pastor to do the funeral service tomorrow.  The pastor is out of the office, so I helped her and her children plan the funeral service this morning.   I am unusually equipped for this task because 1) I’ve been to one million funerals and 2) my dad’s a funeral director.    I have nice manners in these situations, mostly because I just pretend really hard that I’m this one old lady I know and do exactly what she does. It’s a fun exercise: she wears a lot of Chanel.

Now the church hospitality committee is all in a tizzy about this funeral. Should they offer to make a meal? Who should call up the widow to make such an offer? How in the world can they put together a big spread in 24 hours during a holiday weekend if the family wants a meal? Is ham on sale again? Why didn’t they buy two hams instead of just one when they were on sale the last time?

I made seventeen phone calls this morning sorting out the funeral, the pastor, and the hospitality committee.

Also, the dead man’s niece hugged me. I have never clamped eyes on her til today. I don’t care for stranger hugs.

I am surly as fuck today. I’m going stuff these bulletins and go home. And ponder why Protestants always serve ham.

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