Funeral Barbie diorama by Paolo Schmidlin. From his collection of vintage Barbies, part ofthe "Barbie Around the World" exhibit at the Barbara Frigerio in Italy
to help spread the word a lil, ask a mortician just put out a new video, this one specifically about proposed FTC regulation changes for U.S. funeral homes, and theres a comment period that closes October 10th, 2023 to ya kno. comment on em. tell em to help make funerals a lil cheaper.
youtube
I would really reccomend watching the video as she explains it a lot better, but the TLDR is that the FTC is thinking of adding some rules to the regs on how funeral homes disclose a couple of things, like prices (making them list prices online, so you dont need to drive to 7 diff funeral homes to price shop the day your son died, and cause hidden prices=more expensive), and make it clearer WHEN embalming is required (that is, that its NOT required by law, but might be required by the funeral home themselves)
like i said, watch the vid for a better explaination, but both of those things contribute to funerals being Mega Fucking Expensive, so. if you feel like it, go to the FTC and tell em to implement the changes!
Q. Bothersome Burials: Is it appropriate to hold a funeral on a Saturday? I have recently noticed that funerals are more frequently being held on Saturdays instead of weekdays and I think it is bad etiquette. On most Saturdays, we already have plans for weddings, baby showers, birthday parties, ski trips, softball tournaments, etc. and I am perturbed when we are expected to change those plans to attend funerals. It seems to me that when you lose someone very close to you that you should be taking time off of work anyway rather than waiting until your scheduled day off to have a funeral and grieve. When you lose an acquaintance, or perhaps do not know the deceased but still want to support your friends and family, you should be able to limit it to a few hours during the week and not give up your weekend plans. Also, it seems inconsiderate to make the funeral home and cemetery staff work on a Saturday. I believe that Saturdays should be off-limits, am I mistaken about this?
Dear Bothersome Burials,
Funerals should absolutely never be held on Saturdays, for all of the excellent reasons you describe. It is inconsiderate in the extreme to interrupt people's ski trips even for legitimate reasons (whatever they may be — nothing immediately springs to mind, but the Bad Advisor is sure someone somewhere will be able to drudge up an example). To derail a romp on the slopes for something as inconsequential as a community gathering to grieve the departure of a beloved friend or family member from the plane of existence as we know it frankly defies comprehension. For the snuffing out of one's mortal lamplight to cause scheduling conflicts around more minor commitments such as weddings and baby showers is naturally a lesser infraction — attendees can always simply RSVP to the next one, or the one after that — but nevertheless impolite. Of course, few will share your deep concern for the wellbeing of those death professionals who work on Saturdays despite undoubtedly being, as you are, shocked by and entirely unprepared to accommodate the customs and traditions surrounding the inevitable fate, old as life itself, that awaits all of us. But your selflessness is noted here nonetheless.
If you are mistaken about anything, it is in failing to interrogate the cause of these breaches of etiquette. There was a time when people treated each other with just a little more consideration — when we left our doors unlocked, our unvaccinated children played together barefoot in the streets until dawn, and we dropped dead when and only when it was convenient for people's busy weekend schedules. My mother would have rather died than shuffle off the mortal coil just before Little Maydelayne's big softball tournament! Sadly, people these days think only of themselves, their own needs, and their own petty concerns — to say nothing of their unwillingness to sacrifice a day of fun and fulfilling work to attend the final celebration of life for some douchebag who had the gall to kick the bucket without checking their second cousin's day-off calendar first. Grief is already experienced for only those fleeting moments we spend attending funeral services; it is unseemly to defer our limited 40- to 90-minute mourning periods until such a time as we can gather together in meaningful community.
Alas, that's the world we live in today! We can lay much of the blame on the obvious culprits — video games, reefer, and heavy metal music — but we would be doing ourselves a disservice if we did not admit that we are responsible for making time for what matters. The next time a cherished friend, loved one, or colleague sets off on that long, mysterious journey to the undiscovered country, we must prioritize the apres-ski reservations at the lodge bar.
My father and I sit at a sushi bar in my new city
sampling three different kinds of salmon nigiri.
He tells me about a great funeral speech
he recently heard a son give for his father.
The speech was structured around regrets
everyone assumed the father didn’t have,
interspersed with hilarious stories involving boys
crashing the family van and fishing mishaps.
The ivory salmon is pale and impossibly soft.
The sliver of steelhead, orange enough
to pretend it’s salmon. How else to say it.
I am my father’s only child, and he is my mother.
We dip our chopsticks into a horseradish paste
dyed green and called wasabi. I know his regrets.
I could list them. But instead at his funeral
I will talk if I can talk about nights like this,
how good it felt just to be next to him,
to be the closest thing he had.
This is the first bit in one of the novels I am working on, about a girl running away to upstate New York.
_—*⭐️*—_
Being put in a casket sounds horrible. I pity those who don't have the pleasure of decomposing in the dirt—those who will never fully and truly get to give back what the earth had given to them years before.
A body.
A home.
When I die, I don’t wish to be buried in a stiff wooden box with the rest of the trapped, damned skeletons in a crumbling graveyard.
No, when I die, I wish to be stripped of my clothes and my humanity. I wish to put in the ground—where I belong—with no mortal possessions or attachments. I won't need them where I'm going.
I want to feel my hair fall out into the soil; feel my skin melt and slide off my brittle bones. I want to be able to hear the worms crawling through me, and the flower stems weaving through my eye sockets as my bones break and fall apart under the past weight of my living and my worries