The Mafia Wants Me

Funerals are not funny, in case you were wondering.

I've been to two this week. Not funny. Not even mildly amusing.

What was mildly amusing was what happened when I went to the first of the visitations. Not that I laughed, mind you, because that would be tres gauche and quite rude, seeing as I was in a funeral home, but I laughed inside. Just a little.

The following gives you just a wee bit of insight into what a looney tunes I really am.

First of all, trying to find a parking spot was more work than I wanted. I finally found one spot at the far end of the lot, and I quickly wedged myself in-between two other cars, beating out a little old lady who shook her fist at me when I laughed gleefully and gunned it, giving her the finger as I passed by. What? I was first.

Then I started wondering why there were so many cars there in the first place. This lady, my favourite old family friend from many many years ago, was popular, friendly, and everyone liked her. She was well known in the Polish community. But, if truth be told, most of her friends have already passed on. There couldn't be that many old Polish people left, could there? This is what was going through my head as I locked up the car and walked toward the funeral home doors.

I make my way inside, and look for her name and directions to where she was lying. As I walk down the corridor and through the second set of doors, I look up and see what seems like 200 people milling around outside some doorways. And I don't recognize any of them.

Not only that, they're all very dark-looking, with dark suits and olive skin, and very shiny, slicked back black hair. Then I notice that these people are all Italian. Every single one. Not one Polish-looking soul in the whole bunch. And they're all looking at me.

And then my armpits are suddenly soaked with sweat, and my legs start to shake.

Because suddenly I've been transported to The Godfather, and I know that I am about to be in the middle of a Mafia murder scene, and I don't have time for this. Nor am I really in the mood. Plus, I was having a really good hair day.

You know, sometimes I can actually tell how a person is going to die just by looking at them. And sometimes I get a feeling if they're going to pass away relatively soon. Weird, I know. However, I have never yet had an inkling of what my last moments on earth will be. And at first I thought that dying in a hail of Mafia gunfire in a funeral home might actually be kind of cool, and would probably go down in history. And then I remembered that I had a family to take care of, and laundry in the washing machine, and that a really great sale at The Gap was coming soon, and I decided that now was probably not the best time to die, even though I would probably be seen as very heroic, and they might even put up a statue in my memory in some mall somewhere.

When I got hold of myself once again and settled down, I found out where I was supposed to go, and made my way upstairs.

I also remembered that Italians tend to have really big weddings and funerals.

I'll let you know if I hear anything on the news...

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