Life is like a box of chocolates...or your coffin could just look like one.

I was roaming around the internet trying to do a little research for something I'm writing. I wanted to see a coffin, a real modern and up to date coffin, so I could write about one with some accuracy.

A quick google search on coffins brings up a long list of weird websites that typically have more to do with decorations for your home (seriously) than your final resting place. I did stumble across this little gem of a website, which advertises creatively designed coffins. It also advertises environmentally "sympathetic" coffins, which makes me laugh. I can just picture a couple of coffins around the water cooler.

"Yes, I'm entirely sympathetic to the environment," says Box O' Chocolates.

"I mean, it really takes a lot of shit," says Gone to Seed.

It all looked pretty normal, yes, until I checked out the set of coffins labeled "bespoke". Apparently, you can actually be buried in a coffin that looks like a box of chocolates. My favorite was the one labeled "gone to seed", for the avid gardener. You can design your very own casket and visually sum up your entire life. Can you imagine if your entire life was expressed by a gigantic replica of a box of chocolates?

I would love to be buried in a gigantic book, complete with print and everything. The pages would be glued together, of course. You know, like those bibles with the squares cut out for secret bottles of alcohol. Only it would be a secret body of me. And not so secret, really.

Set your alarm for the end of the world.

I've always been a night owl but lately, I've been waking up feeling like a zombie. You know, all zoned out and foggy headed. But I love pushing the end of the day past its limit, watching the clock and the sky change. In the middle of the night, it's easier to be alone. I can sit and stare off into space. I don't have to talk to anyone. I am free to do whatever I please.

There was a year when I only worked for six months. I was unemployed the other six. It was the best. My sleep cycle was so strange, though. I would stay up later and later until, eventually, I was up until six in the morning and then I would sleep until the late afternoon. But I was getting eight hours of sleep, so technically I was being very healthy.

The night time is so quiet when the streets are empty. Everyone is inside and there isn't much noise past three in the morning. I used to smoke cigarettes on my front porch and listen to the way the natural world took over. Tree leaves rustling, wind whistling, animals prowling -- I felt like the only human being left on earth. Most of the time, I liked this feeling. 

I often like to pretend that I am the only one left in the world. I wonder how long I could keep myself company. I would write a lot. I would sleep for ages. I would read books like that guy in the Twilight Zone episode but I wouldn't wear glasses. I would just have to be careful not to poke my eyes out. 

I am pretty sure that I need more time alone than most people but that doesn't mean I would be happy being the only person left on earth. 

Have you ever seen this movie? The Quiet Earth. It's one of those mid-eighties "end of the world" movies. I remember watching it at my cousin's house and crying after one particular scene. The main character was so lonely that he stood naked in front of a mirror and pretended that he was a woman. The way he touched the mirror and the way he cried...that scene is burned in my memory. It was horrifying and captured such an extreme feeling of loneliness. I still think about that scene, that depth of loneliness, from time to time. 

Especially during weeks like this one, with everyone gone for the holidays and an empty house all to myself. I sometimes wonder if I am going to wake up and find an empty city. If it happens, please don't let everyone turn into zombies because I am not the main character in this movie. She's such a bad ass. Plus, ever since Bess told me about zoombies (real fast zombies -- get it? Zoom-bies?) I've been worried that I'm just not quick enough for a zombie fight.

I would like to think that night owls have an advantage when it comes to end of the world scenarios but I suspect that it's always the night owls who end up being the zombies. If I've learned anything from eighties movies about apocalyptic events, it's that "early to bed, early to rise" is basically another way of saying, "Go to bed early, you jerk, and you won't be a zombie in the morning."

Call me. I'll be around.

As far as technology fads go, I'm rarely surprised.

This surprises me.

People are choosing to take their cellphones with them to the grave. Like a secret. Only not at all. Game boys, ipods, and even Blackberries (and I'm not talking about fruit) are being tossed in the caskets with the recently deceased.

It brings a whole new meaning to the phrase "You can't take it with you." I guess in this case, you can.

You can even choose a special ring tone and call your loved one as they are being lowered into their grave.

Strange. And totes amaze.

I'm afraid of icicles.

I've been telling everyone I know that I'm afraid of being impaled by an icicle. In Seattle, snow is rare and icicles are even more rare than snow. But this last week, there has been a LOT of snow. People have been sledding down major streets, skiing to work, and snowshoeing to the grocery store. No joke. It's beautiful and strange. 

But the icicles frighten the ever lovin' love out of me. When I was eighteen, I visited my grandmother out on Fox Island. It's a little island off of Gig Harbor, which is a little city off of Tacoma. Anyway, a snow storm hit the city. It was one of those rare Seattle (read, WA) snow storms. 

We lost power for days. We made grilled cheese sandwiches, tomato soup, and tea using the fireplace. We slept around that heat maker at night, listening to the snow thaw. We spent our days playing cards and talking. It was great. It was one of the greatest disasters I've experienced.

But then, I heard about icicles. Big ones. They were falling from the Tacoma Narrows Bridge and smashing through windshields. This terrifies me. Can you imagine driving, very carefully, across a SUSPENSION BRIDGE after a snow storm, and getting almost all the way across....

Your legs are shaking, your hands are trembling, but you've almost made it. You can see the other side. There it is. You're almost there. Almost there. 

Then, BAM! A giant friggin' icicle smashes through your windshield and kills you. What a way to go.

So, yes. I am afraid of icicles. Those f-ers are sharp little spears and they aren't going to melt between the rooftop and your noggin'. Someone asked me about the possibility of being impaled by an icicle. I googled it. (Surprise, surprise.)

Here is what I found:

In Ploughkeepsie, N.Y. in 1897, a twenty-four year old man named William Hover --

Wait. His last name is Hover, for cryin' out loud. Here is the definition from the lovely people at Dictionary.com:

hov⋅er

    [huhv-er, hov-] Show IPA Pronunciation  

–verb (used without object)

1. to hang fluttering or suspended in the air: The [icicle, maybe?] hovered over the building.

Isn't that what icicles do? Hover? I mean, seriously. That's just creepy. Also, if you click the button above, the one that says "Hear", a voice will say hover. Do it a few times real fast. It's funny.

Anyway, Bill was leaving a warehouse and a TEN POUND icicle fell from the roof of the carriage factory and "cut his derby hat", leaving him with a nasty head wound. The wound was wearing clothes (it was dressed) and Bill went home in a sleigh. Seriously. Like a wounded Santa, minus the hat obviously. Anyway, he died of a concussion. 

Get the full story here.

So that's how possible it is people. One day your leaving the carriage factory and the next, your dead....because of an icicle. Listen, winter is pretty but it's frightening too. Be careful out there folks.

 

A piece of raw bacon.

This Mystery List is from Weird Universe, one of my favorite sources for news and fascinating bits of information.

•  A thank-you note for 'What Would Jesus Do?' thong underwear;
  
•  W-2 forms;
  
• A feather;
  
• A photograph of a nude pregnant woman;
  
• A ticket to Handel's "Messiah";
  
• A love poem comparing the relationship to free samples in a grocery store;
  
• Airplane tickets;
  
• A prescription for Zyrtec;
  
• A sheet of notebook paper announcing 'I am stealing your watch, you moron';
  
• A piece of raw bacon.

Yes, a piece of raw bacon is included in this list.

Want more about the list? Click here.

Retort.

I was searching the Internet today. This is something I do quite often, since I am better at looking things up than talking to other people. I like to google. That's the truth. 

Anyway, the googling....I found a website selling decorative urns. I may have even found the urn I want my cremated remains to, ahem, remain in. But this made me curious. How does cremation work?

The basics:

They remove your jewelry. 

They take out your pacemaker. It could cause an explosion.

They put you in a large cardboard box with a plywood bottom surface.

They warm up the cremation chamber and then send you in for an hour and a half to two hours. 

They pull out the ash and bone.

They use a machine that is a mix between a blender and a dishwasher disposal to create a consistent texture.

They seal you up in a plastic bag and send you home. 

My favorite part? The cremation chamber is often referred to as a "retort".

In the dictionary, one of the other definitions of retort, when used as a noun is: "a quick, witty, or cutting reply; especially: one that turns back or counters the first speaker's words".

Amazing.