I’ve got a jar of dirt!

When Hollywood died suddenly in a car accident 4 years ago (today) our world was rocked. It was my first close experience with death at an age and compassion level of truly understanding mortality. Luckily, he made the planning process very easy. Somehow he knew all along that he was going to die young. His 30^th birthday was more like a funeral than a birthday because he expected it to be his last. He had everything already planned for us. He made a slide show of his favorite pictures, made a list of songs, told us where he wanted his ashes, he even wrote his own eulogy. We were spoiled!!! He had also said instead of weeping the day he died he wanted us to celebrate the day he was born each year after his death. Celebrate we did! I bought a blow up doll, dressed it in his clothes, made masks to put on it so his expression could change. We got him a cake and took him to the bar. He got to finish the night at his favorite strip club complete with tipping and lap dances. It is now a tradition.

My only brother died very similarly a few miles away 3 ½ years later. He was not nice enough to plan everything for us. He barely even talked about what he wanted (this might have contributed to his divorce, PFFT!! BOYS!!!) Our parents had a few wishes they wanted honored but neither of them were pushy or selfish so that left a lot up in the air. Somehow I managed to win the adulting draw and was put in charge (must be the fact I’m already screwed up so it wouldn’t cause more damage)

Joke is on them!!! I played in the ashes. What? It was my last chance to play with my brother, or so I thought…… hehehe…..Every pun you can imagine was thrown around. We went treasure hunting for the fun pieces. I found a staple! I played guess that body part. We put a heart in it and sang “I’ve got a jar of dirt” pirate style. My son pretended to be offended I could be so disrespectful but within a few minutes I heard him ask quietly, in a baby voice “can I have a little scoop-y too?” We voted to put his ashes in a Captain Morgan airplane shot bottle. Our dad called dibs on that little gem.

I’m deranged so it didn’t stop there. I made his box of ashes into a doll. After some hot glue, scissors, elastic, baby clothes and a bottle of wine; we had Mini Stan! I’m slowly drawing his tattoos on. I used the earrings he was wearing in the accident to pierce the mini ears, I’m sooo grateful he didn’t have his dick pierced. I like to wear him in a front baby carrier. Then he can see where we are going and give high fives. I still introduce him as “My Brother Stan” I then quickly cover the doll’s ears and whisper “sssshhhhhh, he died in September and we haven’t had the heart to tell him yet”.

He seems to get mixed reviews, but that isn’t very different from Pre-September Stan. We kind of enjoy the uncomfortable stares from prudish people that don’t understand the freedom of mental illness. Our mom gives us a sideways look and mumbles. His older daughter thinks it’s sweet that she can hang out with him still. They won a game at the skating rink together. Our dad loves it! He is planning on taking him to Canada on the next motorcycle trip. Do you think ashes need a passport?

The friends I’ve talked to want to set up play-dates. Everyone is ecstatic that he can keep on living a normal life that doesn’t involve work. And guess what?! He gets to go with me to the tax appointment! There are only 2 certainties in life and he isn’t going to skip out on that second one this year. I’m probably going to hell for that. Maybe after-death taxes is only purgatory level. It would be so great if it is.

We are pretty sure this is what he would’ve wanted (other than becoming a box of pencils) So far he hasn’t told us to stop. If you randomly hear national news of a freak accident involving a cremated voodoo doll you will know I finally took it a step too far.

Now use the magic little clicky buttons below to share this with all of your friends…..or with your boss if you need an excuse for a mental health day….do it now…..