[Before I tell you this, can I just tell you that the comments on the previous entry have had me in stitches for hours? Next year I'm going to suggest that the students analyze the rockingness of my readers.]
Yesterday, for some reason, the family was congregated here in my office and the subject of a ring of mine came up (do not ask me to explain; I can’t), and Chickadee immediately piped up, “Can I have it when you’re dead?
It doesn’t matter how many bushes you have, people. Chickie is not going to beat around even a single one of them. FYI.
Because I am mean and horrible and also because the little glint she gets in her eyes when she asks me these things disturbs me just a wee bit, I answered, “Absolutely… NOT.” And she was, of course, CRUSHED.
“Why NOOOOOOT?” she asked, full pout ready to descend.
“Because…” I tried to find just the right answer. The one that would convey all of the love I have for her. “… I’m going to be buried in it!” I concluded, twinkle in my eye matching the one she’d been flashing me just a minute earlier.
“You’re going to be buried IN A RING?” asked Monkey, making the shape and approximate size of said jewelry with his fingers, clearly flummoxed as to how I would fit in such a thing.
“I’m going to be cremated!” I replied. “And then STUFFED IN MY RING! And buried that way!” Now we were all laughing.
“I sure hope they have a REALLY HOT OVEN for you, dear,” said Otto, chuckling. “I mean, you’re talking about REALLY being cremated.”
“Yes, well,” I continued, “like I said, I’m going to be cremated. And then I’m going to be VAPORIZED.” The children were holding their sides with laughter, by this point, and Otto and I were both giggling uncontrollably. “And THEN!” I finished, “I’ll be buried IN MY RING.”
Death is a solemn topic we discuss with the proper reverence around here, people.
Also: Keep your mitts off my ring.