So Mom was trying to engage me in conversation about her headstone and I want no part of it. She's not terminally ill. She doesn't even have a cold. She's morbid.
Since I wouldn't talk to her about it, Mom: Do you think Austin would like to see the stone I picked out?
Me: Yes, Mom. He can't wait until you're underground.
So later, I'm railing at Austin about Mom and all this morose chatter.
Me: Mom wanted to know if she should put the picture of her in a dress on her tombstone or the one of her at Tae Kwon Do. "Which one is the real me?" So I said, "Get a picture of you in a sweatshirt and jeans."
Then Austin goes on a bit about how spooky photographs in cemeteries are and how big sculptures of angels are much cooler.
Me:Then Mom tells me there's not going to be a funeral and no showing hours. I told her we're going to do what we want. She's going to be dead.
Austin: That's right. We'll tie her joints with strings and have a puppet show.
Later, Austin: Don't tell your Mom that thing about turning her into a marionette. I don't think she'll get it.
Me: Then you better hope she doesn't read Facebook.
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