I don't normally post things from my own personal life here on PnM (yes, it's been known to happen, but usually in a comical and/or inserted type of way), but since I decided that if I had heard about this from someone, I would definitely have posted about it, I figured, eh, what the hell? (Just call me the future Mrs. Kroeger) (on second thought, DON'T)
Yesterday was the funeral for my uncle (my dad's younger brother). I didn't know him that well, he wasn't around us much. Old school family dramas and the like. His name was James. My grandma called him Jamie. We called him Jim. Some called him Jimmy, and someone yelled out "Jed!" yesterday, so I guess they called him that, as well. The minister? He called him Jeremy. Twice.
James/Jamie/Jim/Jimmy/PossiblyJed/Jeremy had a pet snake. He called him John. I called him Ucky. The minister called him Harold/Howard.
I was not a key figure in the funeral, I just sat quietly in my corner, listening intently. For an hour and a half (I thought funerals were usually like...what....half hour? 20 minutes if nobody liked you?). The minister read the obituary. My name was said 5 times. Dramatically wrong. My insistence that he "move on, it's fine" went unnoticed. (It should be noted that about 15 minutes before this, we had a 2 minute conversation about how to pronounce my name) But I fared better than my brothers. Their names didn't get pronounced, right or otherwise. Grandma later stated that the minister "kept looking away from his cards and losing his place".
The moral of the story: please hold my funeral service at a home that has teleprompters. Thank you, and good night.
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