Michelle's death was greatly exaggerated.

The tales of Michelle’s death were greatly exaggerated. She did not die of Hyper-Calcitus (the overconsumption of orange juice), and she did not require 16,000$ worth of encasement and beachfront property in Pacific Grove. I had always argued that the cemetery was too close to the Pebble Beach golfers, their crusty eyesight was conjunctive, and it would take only one missliced drive and I was going to join her forever.

Michelle got the kind of funeral reserved for rich nobles in the 14th century. I wondered if they buried Lady Godiva with clothes. There was a procession from a small church that still owed me money. This made it difficult for the preacher to hold out his hand for a tip. In fact, each time he looked at me in the front row, with my angry brow, Preacher Dan started saying really nice things about this lady.

“Michelle Letalini Mascroff (gulp) Goroundus”

I hate when he uses my Latin surname.

“She was taken much, much too fast.. (and the people say?)”

“Amen,” I grumbled back.

Now the thing about sitting there in my pleated suit, having to look entirely more fashionable than her Uncle Bobby who likes to remind me he is tall and makes one dollar less than the President, the thing is that I had this sudden skin reaction to the starch of my collar. I told my housemate, Spanish Mary Poppins, to sit in the front pew because she had met Michelle at least once. My children would just have to sit on Spanish Mary’s lap because I preferred to remember them before they talked back.

Let’s see, My father yet lives and came with all the groans and the bottles needed for groans. We liked to call the Radison his local house because they have a recliner which doesn't interfer with his snoring. My sister, the hippie, sat as far away from our father as possible because they have unresolved issues after he never bought her a horse. Jamie is now the greatest horse-ologist in all of Ventura County.

Jamie brought some kids. Her husband was in the third row because he forgot to do my taxes. Never do stock trades with family if they are only a lawyer and a wealth manager due to other family. You will literally be the last thing on their mind when they crawl out of bed to play Dungeons and Dragons all night.

There was a bunch of orphans, a “peckle” of grown orphans who had survived the system because Michelle used our Christmas, Thanksgiving, Columbus Day, and my PTO moments to go pull them away from their drugged out parents. I wish people would get loaded and stupid on regular days. I waved to one who looked like he came over to clean the yard years ago. Boris? I remember trying to give him fatherly advice but it wasn’t working because I only practiced on future women.

We took down a tree house which was being vandalized by birds. He burnt the wood and roasted a supper of bratwurst. Those were good days.

Now because the church was very small, I cheerfully wrote to Michelle’s sister (even before fabricating a paragraph for the paper)... I AM SORRY (not sorry) THAT THERE IS NO ROOM FOR YOU. oh how I would pay a skywriter to take a plane and spell each word out long and slow in front of her house. If only this (sister) beast didn’t also live in Ventura. Strange? How did we both get sisters to run away to a random city we have never known?

No parents.

Probably why Michelle joined Social Services, I found her as the top of the line exotic dancer in a bar that wasn’t very religious. Years ago before she read Oliver Sachs and got a disease (hyper-calcitus?) She was very spiritual with the hookah and the glass bong at that time. Her agent put her in half a dozen movies as an Extra and I recall that we had a little earthquake in Los Angeles, 1994 – but I was pretty sure she caused this because I came home late with a college painter who was supposed to paint us.

We had a cat that lived forever.

They let us into the Virgin Mega store though we weren’t virgins. We drove down to Santa Monica on a scooter and hollywood junkies with rich parents cheered us on because they were driving slowly looking for the right house to buy weed.

(Why am I tell you this? Let’s get on with the service).

It was a small church because we became old enough not to hide in the back so much. A small church with heavy wooden pews, optional prayer knee kickers and psalm books and envelopes that receipted whatever you wrote the government. There was a baptismal font under the stage and when Pastor Dan started talking about his own kids or football too much I would just point down and remind him that the stage had wood rot. He needed to stay focused on the holy spirit because only people missing the holy spirit got baptized twice (and he wanted me to pay for a new floor).

Michelle’s people liked poor churches while my parents chose the churches were we felt poor.

Someone invited “Kent” (taco bell dick) who promised to take Michelle to Portland when we were fighting. I get confused because one Kent was nice and the other one wanted his old girlfriend back. I met him with a borrowed metal baseball bat because there is a better clang on the door when metal touches metal in his townhouse. He didn’t even open the door and I was ready for the roommate, the pitbull, the rage inside would have been a new kind of felony.

Yeah. Those were the days.

Everybody was pretty quiet, “reverent” , avoiding the obvious question: Why did you break up after 30 years? We didn’t advertise or tell anyone who didn’t come to holiday dinners. It was a private matter.

I could have saved sixteen thousand bucks if we just divorced.

Probably more but it didn’t matter.

I was all glum and completely ignoring the pastor’s hail. He said something like “Will the real Thomas Goround please stand up,

.... Please stand up.”

What?

I was the only one in the small church standing. I didn’t want to hear about good and noble Michelle had been. How she balanced my weirding ways, like Women Going West I sent her to negotiate with the savages in the after-life. Spanish Mary Poppins was probably going to join me outside because my kids on her lap are like 19 years old and kinda heavy. Spanish Mary didn’t even smoke but she understood that I had to forget all the deep seated emotions that were just bubbling up to come out. I wanted to mourn and convalesce because all was already forgiven (except her sister who wasn’t invited).

I was ready to push those big doors out, smell the ash wednesday air, run to the park in wingtips and buy a balloon. I was going to set that red balloon right into the sun with a little Marlboro long stemmed cigarette (her brand) smoking in remembrance.

Michelle was 1/56th native and I think they burn stuff, depending on the tribe. I mean we couldn’t get the kids into college for free because her tribe was too small and there was no DNA matching because she was also Irish. Very very irish.

(They bang everything said a man from Cork).

I just wanted to get out and free my pits from that suit. Just wanted to dance on the plain, in the rain… maybe Spain?

Except there were ten men in black eagerly surrounding me in a circle.

Ten men who were not crying behind their sunglasses because they didn’t love Michelle at any time but simply wanted to process serve a man who needed to lose it all. [This "service" required for divorce. 80% of American divorces initiated by women but not always using the fake funeral method. Michelle is dramatic.].

::: Are you Fucking Kidding me?::::

Michelle jumps right out of that 16,000$ coffin and starts throwing the flower vases as hard as she could. She heaves in all the air of her beautiful little body: I CANT BELIEVE YOU DIDN’T INVITE MY SISTER!

It’s weird but I always imagined buying two burial plots and would graciously give up the second burial to her sister.

The men in black won’t get back. They have corraled me to the back of a small church and put papers in my waist ban, taken a picture of the service, and poked me in the butt with a needle for genetic proof. Uncle Bobby stands up in over 6 feet of purpose. He’s not really my uncle but we used to share him some and he doesn’t stop his niece from running up the aisle.

This is what you get for marrying when you are poor and don’t give your woman an aisle for a wedding day. I just noticed that Michelle is technically a bride corpse. How men can totally miss what a woman is wearing because we are looking in their eyes, the breast are covered, the Process Servers are waiting…

I mean who hires process servers to stand there and let you get beat with a funeral flower vase?

That was wicked. I wanted their numbers.