National Delurker Day 2010

(Thanks to Aimee for the great artwork again this year)

Hey kids,

National Delurker Day is here again!

Chris over at Rude Cactus sent a note this week reminding us of this very special day. It's that time of year when some of us bloggers ask you fabulous readers/fellow bloggers to reveal yourselves by leaving us a comment.

Because we are insecure and need to feel the love, internet.

For those of you new to blogspeak, a "lurker" is best defined as someone who reads a blog but does not comment or otherwise make himself known in any way.

I confess, I am generally a lurker. There are blogs that I read every day but I'm not much of a comment person because it's kind of like leaving a message on voice mail. I get all nervous and self conscious which results in a garbled, incoherent mess. I am one of those that needs time to craft a thoughtful reply because I've spent a lifetime flossing my teeth with my boot laces, as you will soon read.

I use this day every year to write about some of my most embarrassing moments because they are plentiful and easily recalled. Take my grandmother's funeral, for instance.

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I was on my way to our regional airport to board a flight for Las Vegas to attend yet another brain melting trade show when my mum emailed me to tell me that my Grammy had passed away.

(Yes, you read that correctly and getting into our family dynamic would just take waaayyy too long to explain so let's just say we're a technically savvy bunch and leave it at that, shall we?)

I pulled onto the shoulder of the road, called my mother and then had myself a mini breakdown. The rest of the day was a blur of arrangements and the following morning, I flew home to New Brunswick.

I despise funerals. They are an awful tradition.

We all feel sad. Check.
We know that those closest to us would like to be able to make it better. Check.
One must speak in a low, appropriately somber, voice. Check.
One must try to control one's emotions even though one's throat aches with unshed tears. Check.
And it is something just this side of torture to sit for hours in a funeral home accepting condolences from decent people who just want to show you a little support. Nobody knows what to say, which is understandable because what can really be said other than, "I'm sorry".

Because they are awful and because I hate them with the fire of a thousand suns, I don't do especially well at funerals. During the viewing for my grandmother,(yes, we are that family, too),someone encouraged me to place my hand over Grammy's so that I wouldn't dream of her. But what if I wanted to dream of her, I thought and instead of voicing this, I walked up to the casket with my sister cousins.

Predictably, we commented about how peaceful she looked and what a good job they did with her hair. I touched her hand and immediately understood that my grandmother was gone. Her hand was cold, oddly dense and foreign. It stunned me and I felt myself awash in unbridled grief. I looked at her face and noticed that the funeral home had painted her lips in a colour uncharacteristic of my gram, which made me unreasonably angry.

As I rifled through my purse for a tube of something more appropriate, I muttered, "Grammy wouldn't be caught dead in that lipstick."

In horror, realizing what I had just said, I snapped my head up, eyes wide and sucked in my breath, clamping my hand over my mouth.

IDIOT, IDIOT, IDIOT.

I looked at my sisters, expecting to see disappointment and disgust in their faces. Instead, I was met with mild surprise and suppressed laughter. They get me. Completely.

It was then that I understood what I had always known. Funerals are not for the deceased. They are for the living.

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On this, my third official National Delurker Day, I want to thank the tens of you for reading. I really appreciate that you have given me a voice.