OK, so don’t think less of me for saying this, but funerals are a great place to meet men. Seriously. I never would have thought it, but I’ve met a few guys over the years through my work. And I’m not the only one. I have seen hook up after hook up at the funerals I’ve arranged. I won’t say, “love connections,” because that’s probably overdoing it a bit in most cases. But you’d be surprised how many people leave a funeral in a different car (or cab) than they arrived in.
Maybe it’s New York. I don’t know. But, let’s face it: dating in the City can be scarier than a drunk, six-foot-five Judy Garland at the Greenwich Village Halloween Parade (do they really make ruby slippers in a size 13?). Navigating the dating scene in New York is not for the faint of heart. Seen Sex and the City? Doesn’t even do it justice. Everyone has an agenda – and the agenda is never the same. Half of the guys seem to want a phone number and nothing more (even names are optional), five minutes after dropping their best (worst) pick-up line. Meanwhile, half of the girls want a detailed resume, three letters of reference, and the name of your childhood dog before agreeing to a first date.
Hmm, speaking of dogs, maybe now is a good time to mention Roxie’s role in my own dating life. Everyone said that having a dog would be an amazing way to meet men. Not having had a dog since the dearly departed Cadfael, I had no way of knowing if that was really true. Tamsin seemed to believe it, though, and even went so far as to buy Roxie a little pink t-shirt that said, “Mommy’s Single” in little rhinestones. I have to admit, it was adorable, but I’ve never had the guts to put it on her. At any rate, I don’t think it would really matter, anyway. As delightful a little girl as my Roxie is, she’s a quirky one. OK, she’s nuts. And, when it comes to men, she’s a total wackadoo. I’m not kidding. Last fall, I had to replace some guy’s Ray-Bans which had somehow fallen into the East River. I say somehow. It probably had something to do with the fact that, when he tried to shake my hand, she tried to take his off (by the way, comedy gold watching a little ten-pound rugrat try to reach a six-foot-tall guy’s wrist). In the ensuing panic, which involved him shrieking like a four-year-old girl and jumping away from Roxie’s tiny snapping jaws of death, his sunglasses flew from the top of his head into the drink. And I was out a couple of hundred bucks.
I did date this one guy for a while, Rob. Nice enough guy. Worked for the Manhattan DA’s office. We met through mutual friends at a Yankee game, and dated for about four months. It was good, until he decided to stay the night at my place. Now, I should say, I do have boundaries for Roxie. She a spoiled little devil, but there are rules. And, one of those rules is – only Mommy sleeps in Mommy’s bed. Unfortunately, Roxie apparently takes that rule a little too literally, as evidenced by a somewhat humiliating (for Rob) trip to the ER in the middle of the night. He stopped calling me after that. I guess I can see why – I understand it’s a very sensitive, uh, area. After that, there were new rules. Well, just one new rule - when Mommy has company, Roxie sleeps in the living room!
So, yeah, demented dogs – not really the best matchmakers. And that brings us back to funerals. And, yes, I do know those are not my only options, but what can I say? I don’t know what exactly it is about funerals, or wakes. Certainly emotions are high, but it would have to be a pretty tacky person who preys on the truly devastated mourners. No, the real hook-ups tend to come with what I like to call the “periphery” mourners. These are the friends and extended family members of the bereaved who have come out of a sense of duty or compassion, but aren’t directly affected by the death themselves. So, once they’ve made it through the receiving line and paid their respects, they find themselves at loose ends. They can’t just leave, but they don’t really know anyone. So, they seek out a pretty girl (or guy, as the case may be) and strike up a conversation, using the skills finely honed in the clubs and bars of Manhattan.
Seems a little crass, I know, but I don’t think anyone really does it deliberately. Well, OK, that’s not strictly true – there have been a few times I’ve wondered at a person’s true motive for being at a service. But, for the most part, I think it’s just people looking for a way to make an uncomfortable situation a little easier to deal with. And, I have to admit, a new service I added seems to have contributed to a recent rise in funeral parlor hook-ups. My professional mourners have proven useful not just at the poorly attended funerals, but also at the ones that are overrun with visitors. Most of us have been to services at some point that have been so full, you spend your whole time on the line waiting to pay your respects. Part of the problem is that, inevitably, there are people ahead of you who have decided that now is the perfect time to catch up on the ten years that have passed since they’ve seen the bereaved. Enter the “Pushers” and “Pullers.”
I got the idea from a college friend of mine who’s in the Foreign Service. We were at a wake for one of our classmates who had been killed in a terrible accident. We stood on line outside the funeral parlor for an hour and a half, and then inside for another hour or so, before we could pay our respects to our friend’s mom. While we were waiting, my friend commented that they needed “Pushers” and “Pullers.” I was busy making mental notes about flowers and the placement of the mass cards, so I didn’t register what he had said at first, but then I was intrigued.
“What do you mean, ‘Pushers’ and ‘Pullers?’” I asked.
“We have them in the Foreign Service,” he said. “Keeps people from getting too chummy with the Ambassador at receptions. Junior Officers hover near the receiving line and, when someone starts trying to monopolize the Ambassador’s time, they step in and say, ‘Hi, I’m Mary. Can I show you the Picasso?’ or ‘Can I show you to the bar?’ Pretty good system actually.”
“Pretty good system,” I murmured, distractedly. I was only half listening again, as I was now absorbed with watching the funeral director restock the memorial cards a few feet away. They were of the inferior cardboard variety, and I couldn’t help but think that I would never have allowed cards like that at one of my services. I felt instantly ashamed by the thought and turned my attention to signing the guest book, which I had finally reached.
From the guest book to the front of the line took another forty minutes, and by then, I was exhausted from standing, and more than a little annoyed (and more than a little ashamed by the fact that I was feeling annoyed). I paid my respects and, since the viewing hours were nearly done, I just took a few minutes to look at the photo collages and then left.
It was on the train ride home that the little cartoon light bulb went off over my head and I finally took in that conversation. Pushers and Pullers. That was the perfect new service to offer my clients! Soon enough, my professional mourners had more work than they could handle – at empty funerals, they fill the pews, and at busy ones, they keep the line moving. Now it is a little trickier at a wake or funeral to “push” and “pull.” I do occasionally have services in private homes that might actually have a Picasso to look at, or a bar set up. But, most often, in funeral parlors, there’s a dearth of distractions. My Pushers and Pullers have a tough time encouraging people to look at floral arrangements and photo collages. And, frankly, “Can I show you to the casket?” really doesn’t work.
So what, if anything, does this have to do with meeting the opposite sex? Well, like I said, the addition of this service seemed to correlate with a rise in funeral hook-ups. It seems that conversations started up over a pretty floral arrangement or a photo collage can lead to, well, you get the idea. It’s been a side effect that my friends and employees have thoroughly enjoyed. Believe it or not, a couple of my Pushers and Pullers met their spouses (or life partners) that way.
But, after all that, that’s not how I met Michael.
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