The Aspiring Undertaker

The only place I spend more time than the cafe is the cemetery. Technically it’s a “memorial park.” And it is the most peaceful spot in Los Angeles that also has clean bathrooms.

No, it’s not depressing, but you know what is? The fact that I got married in the cemetery exactly 20 years ago. Bet you didn’t see that divorce coming. I actually feel simultaneously grounded and uplifted in the lush, rolling space. You’re strolling around with a flock of Canadian geese on your right, a grove of oak trees on your left, and marshmallow clouds overhead—straddling the seam of life and death. And here comes security guard, Kenny, in his white truck, asking how you are and handing you a bottle of water out the window.

I have so many cemetery stories for you—don’t let me forget to tell you about Michael Jackson’s funeral—and spring seems like the right time to start sharing them.

When Noah was 4 or 5, we got to know another single mom and her son at old Starbucks in Atwater Village. Not well, but well enough to share our table with them while they waited for their orders. Noah vroomed his matchbox car on the windowsills with the little boy. And us moms did the universal greeting of tired mothers everywhere: the smile-sigh.

“How are you guys?” I asked her.

Her shoulders dropped in relief at the question. She moved her sunglasses to the top of her head of bleached hair and hot pink highlights.

“We’re doing alright,” she smiled. “I’m tired.”

“Want to sit? I can grab you a chair,” I asked.

“No, no, thanks—can’t really sit today, my spine is whacked,” she said.

“Oh, what happened?,” I asked.

“It just happens every few weeks—it’s from the car accident.” She turned around and showed me the scar on her neck, running down into her t-shirt collar to the base of her spine where her belt with metal spikes held the rest of her together.

“Oh, whoa, I am so sorry,” I said.

“Yeah, thanks, it’s ok. I mean, it sucks, but I’ve learned a lot. And it’s helped me find my calling,” she said.

“What do you do?,” I asked.

“Well, besides parent this one (she pointed to her kiddo), I am an aspiring undertaker,” she stated.

“No way!,” I said. I had honestly never met an aspiring undertaker, nor one in senior leadership for that matter. I suppose I had some Herman Munster preconceptions, but hadn’t had a reason to interrogate them before now.

“Yeah,” she smirked. You could tell she liked getting people’s goat with that line. “When the accident happened and it changed not just what I can do physically but how I look, I thought a lot about beauty. Like am I still beautiful if I’m disfigured—especially in LA. And I came to see the beauty in accidents, in different shapes, even in death. The death of how you used to look. The death of not being able to lift your own kid anymore. And I wanted to make dead things beautiful. And help other people find beauty even in the pain of losing their loved one. Plus, I like make-up,” she laughed.

“That’s incredible. And noble,” I said dumbstruck. That is not the backstory I would have imagined for an undertaker. And that is not the vocation I would have imagined for a single mom. But as I heard the boys giggle and smelled the coffee brew, it started making deeper sense to me.

Of course a mom—literal incubator of life— would be drawn to bringing light and life into death’s dark throat. And of course someone who’d been through a painful, tragic wreck would emerge with purpose and beauty in their wings. She was flying above a cosmic raw deal in her combat boots. Her choice wasn’t inevitable—she could have gotten swallowed up; but she didn’t. She put on some thick black eyeliner and said, “Nice try, universe.”

And I still think about her when I’m feeling my spine warping from the latest crash. Whether it’s rent hiking, my geriatric cat becoming incontinent, or landmines in the strait of Hormuz. I hold my warm mug and wonder what it looks like in that moment to put on my boots and creak open the coffin lid.

Wishing you some moments this week where beauty breaks you out of the ugly.

P.S. - If you want to support an amazing single mom while drinking your coffee, my friend Tera founded Mama Vibes coffee. She’s a rock star.

P.T.S.D. — I have it, and I’m committed to recovering from it and helping other people do the same. Mostly by going out our front doors and re-humaning in the wild.

To that end, I’m starting a video series called Cat Chat Cafe, where I explore cafes and their local characters and gently retrain my nervous system that it’s okay to do new things without an anvil dropping on my head.

I’m nervous. Social media is weird. But I’d love for you to join me on Instagram.