And it was, indeed, a meeting about a pamphlet about handling the stages of grief since people my age aren't – according to them – used to loss (the nine or ten funerals I've attended and four dogs I've lost in the last eight years not withstanding). Apparently there are ten stages which came as a surprise considering I thought there were five: this place does grief to the max – though to be the Spinal Tap of funeral homes, they needed an eleventh stage.

They also gave me another water with their logo on it because, according to the lead funeralist, his wife was a marketing major.

Also: helpful reassurance that they would never run out of space, in case I wanted to be buried near my loved ones. I decided to, a.) not vomit in my mouth and b.) not tell them that my ideal sendoff is the donation of my body to a dinner theater rendition of FARGO for the wood chipper scene. Tarps for diners optional.

Verisimilitude FTW oh you betcha.