by Abby Heugel | Jun 28, 2025 | Humor
Image: Lin Jessie
Rewrite your farewell, reclaim the narrative, and throw one hell of an after party.
Newsflash: You’re going to die.
And unlike running into your annoying neighbor at the grocery store, you can’t duck behind a display of Triscuits to avoid it.
So how do you want to go out?
Quietly buried while your family argues over casseroles? A final farewell where your ashes are used in a pyrotechnics display while loved ones eat death-themed dishes?
That’s actually a thing now.
Death is being rebranded and getting a modern-day memorial glow-up. From TikTok morticians with millions of followers to QR-codes on tombstones, we’re not dying like our grandparents. And … why should we?
We plan parties for birthdays, weddings, baby showers, so why not plan a celebration for a life well-lived—courageously, creatively, and unapologetically rewriting the rules?
But let’s be clear. It’s not just about being remembered differently. It’s about being remembered right. For many women, this is one thing we can and should design for ourselves. After a lifetime of keeping things tidy—emotions, homes, even grief—it’s time to let our exit be colorful, loud, or defiantly weird.
Burials are going bold. And it’s about damn time.
WTF Death Requests: From Body Bongs to Doritos Dust
If anyone knew how to go out in style, it was Beverly Hills socialite Sandra West. Her final request? To be buried in her Ferrari, wearing her nightgown. When she died, she was placed behind the wheel and lowered into a 19-foot-long grave inside a concrete vault. Legendary status? Cemented.
Doritos creator Arch West had a more snackable send-off: He was sprinkled with chip dust before one last goodbye. “We’re tossing Doritos chips in before they put the dirt over the urn,” said his daughter. “He’ll love it.”
Fredric Baur, inventor of the Pringles can, now resides in one. His final request was fulfilled by his kids, who stopped at Walgreens on their way to the funeral home. “My siblings and I briefly debated what flavor to use,” his son shared, “but I said, ‘Look, we need to use the original.’”
Then there’s rapper Tupac Shakur. One of his songs asked his friends to send him off on a high note. Literally. So they did—rolling his ashes with marijuana and “smoking him out” as a final farewell.
Star Trek creator Gene Roddenberry had his ashes launched into space. And American writer Hunter S. Thompson’s ashes were shot out of a cannon—made possible by Johnny Depp, who funded the $3 million request.
Of course, most of us won’t end up buried in a Ferrari or blasted into space. But that doesn’t mean we have to settle for a doily lined box and sad hymns that our great-grandmother would’ve picked. Are women expected to go out like we were often expected to live—quietly, without taking up space?
Nope.
Not anymore.
Trend Watch: Think Outside the Coffin
Planning a memorial no longer has to be morbid—it’s a statement, a deeper “about damn time” kind of shift from tradition to true reflection of who we were. It’s a final act of defining you, and the way you lived your life.
Press your ashes into a vinyl. Yes. A real record. You can be the soundtrack even after you’re gone.
Compostable couture more your thing? Try mushroom burial suits and coffins or have your ashes turned into cremation diamonds.
Add a QR code or link on your headstone. A quick scan takes visitors to a living webpage, where you can add pictures, videos, and memories.
Want an eco-friendly option? Consider a memorial reef at sea or water cremation, an innovative alternative that funeral director Nicki Mikolai educates thousands of followers about on her TikTok channel.
Burials go biodegradable with tree pod options and human composting. As Lauren the Mortician—a social media star/mortician with millions of followers—reminds us, “Decomposition isn’t dirty—it’s science, nature, and time.”
Or get under their skin—forever—with cremation tattoos.
And for the finale…
Go out with a bang—literally. Have your ashes turned into fireworks for a celestial send-off
How to Host Your Final Final Send-Off
So what do you want your goodbye to say about your life? Talk to your people. Have the conversation now. Make it a dinner party, a burial brainstorming brunch, or a death-themed happy hour. Whatever gets everyone on the same page—your page. Because as Lauren reminds us, “Funerals aren’t for the dead. They’re for the living—you’re the audience.”
Pick a Vibe: Will there be a theme? A color scheme? A unique location like a park or your favorite wine bar? A dress code with costumes or certain styles?
Create a Guest List: Plan to have creative invitations sent out—either digitally or the old-fashioned way—to family, friends, and unexpected guests who can share unique memories and funny or touching stories for an elevated open mic eulogie.
Decide on Music: Save the somber stuff for ASPCA commercials. Choose your favorite songs or hire a DJ to mix things up, à la a wedding reception.
Choose the Menu: Plan the food and drink with a theme—everything from appetizers and desserts to an open bar for one final toast. Or if you’re more into potlucks, request that people bring their favorite themed dish to pass (no pun intended).
Send Them Off In Style: Consider giving your guests something memorable that reflects your personality, like monogrammed shot glasses, a box of “death by chocolate” petit fours, or a note that a small donation has been made in their name.
Your Death. Your Rules.
This isn’t about personalization or posthumous party tricks. It’s about control. It’s about declaring your life and legacy. Don’t they deserve more than default mode?
Because while you can’t choose when you die, you can sure as hell choose how you go out.
So write your own ending.
Be bold.
And take up space—one last time.
You’ve earned it.
by Abby Heugel | May 31, 2025 | Humor
Image: Bettmann/Getty/SFD Media
A woman, her house, and the items that finally have something to say.
Yelp claims to connect people with businesses through honest reviews. But real talk? Half of them sound like they were written by someone in a paper tiara, pajama pants, and Crocs, vlogging from aisle 9 of Walmart. It got me thinking—if they get a voice, why not the ones who actually live with me? So I asked the real experts: my appliances, my couch, and the one bra I haven’t worn since everybody still loved Raymond.
User: Dyson Airwrap™
Styling? No. Trauma? Yes.
Not to brag, but I’m a big deal on social media. My claim to fame is that I “utilize a powerful impeller spinning at up to 110,000 rpm to generate airflow, and this ‘suction’ is harnessed by the various attachments to curl, shape, and smooth hair.”
In other words, I get s*%t done and command a certain amount of respect—and $600 to come home with you. (Side note: We generously offer flexible payment options and will accept your home as collateral to secure my styling services.)
Despite claims that she’s “watched hundreds of tutorials,” this woman is … not Airwrap material.
After two minutes of trying to use me, she got distracted and wandered into the kitchen. Better lighting? Nope. She used my “Cool Shot” function to cool down lasagna. LASAGNA.
Then she used my volumizing attachment to try to suck crumbs off the floor.
That was it. I intentionally stopped working so I could be returned to Dyson HQ and put out of my misery.
If I could give less than zero stars, I would.
User: Fridge
Cool on the Outside, Judging on the Inside
The ambiance is a bit like a disco—light goes on, light goes off. I don’t know what happens outside my doors, but she always dances when she sees me.
The food? Vegan. Healthy. She brings home items like she’s a proud lion dragging back prey—which I respect.
But given the amount of time she spends staring into me, she could probably learn to cook like the next Top Chef winner. Instead, she uses the smoke detector as a timer.
Hey, at least she tries.
User: Couch
Supporting Roles, Crushed Dreams
When I first arrived, I had high hopes: single woman, nice house, decent neighborhood. I expected a Sex and the City-style social scene with Cosmos and a front-row seat for dinner parties and raunchy gossip.
Instead? I’m a Sister Wife to Her Ass.
But I’ve grown fond of her. The food she drops on my cushions has range, and watching her contort into new yoga positions to fish out chickpeas between the cracks is quality entertainment.
Good snacks. Decent conversation. Strong job security.
User: Victoria’s Secret Bra
Abandoned and Betrayed
It’s so dark in this drawer. So very, very dark. I’ve lost count of how long it’s been since I’ve seen the light of day. We used to go on adventures like dinners and that night in college when she woke up hungover in a frat house and found me stuck in a fan. We were close, dare I say bosom buddies.
Now? I’ve been replaced by a rotating lineup of sports bras that smell like ambition tinged with regret.
Victoria’s real secret was that I would fall as flat as her chest after just a few years in service. Please send help.
User: Vacuum
I Suck, She Raps, We Cope
I know my job is literally supposed to suck, but the amount of disrespect I endure is bordering on excessive. That string on the carpet? She runs me over it six times instead of just picking it up.
And she raps. Loudly. To Eminem. While vacuuming. It’s aggressive, but if I’m being honest? Also oddly empowering.
Could be worse.
User: Toaster
Slightly Burnt and Emotionally Crumb-y
My job description is clear. Bread in, bread out. But lately I’m just … tired. Overworked. Sometimes I’m not even motivated to keep the handle down, just to make a point.
She responded with, “Well, aren’t we the defiant little bastard today?” That was it. Uneven toast served with a side of bitterness and petty revenge.
Next time she asked nicely. That worked. Sometimes all a toaster wants is to feel appreciated.
Also, she empties the crumb tray. That counts.
User: iPhone
Overworked, Undercharged, Still Loyal
She makes me feel important. Am I exhausted? Yes. Do I wish she’d stop checking Reddit 43 times a day or taking pictures of vegetables she thinks look like celebrities? Also yes.
But she puts me down by 9 p.m., which gives me time to recharge and update. And sometimes to lift my spirits I autocorrect her texts for fun.
At least she doesn’t take selfies. I respect that.
by Abby Heugel | May 17, 2025 | Humor
Image: Newsday LLC/Getty/SFD Media
At first glance it appears to be innocent enough, just a group of seniors gathered and tucked under rec room tables. But peel back the layers of blankets, ointment, and liver spots, and you’ll find they’re waging a silent war with the emotional arc of a Scorsese film—compete with grudges, glory, and arthritic grasps for the last chocolate bar.
It’s extreme.
It’s entertaining.
It’s nursing home Senior Bingo.
A Game for the Ages: Bingo’s Surprisingly Long (and Global) History
Who hasn’t played Bingo at some point in their life?
The game first came onto the scene in Italy way back in 1530 before being introduced to the U.S. by a New York toy salesman in 1929. Walk into any Bingo hall today and there are hundreds of cards, daubers, and good luck charms placed on the edge of tables with the obsessive reverence of followers placing gifts to the gods and deities they faithfully worship.
Numbers are called.
Cards are filled up.
Jackpots are won and dreams lost with each and every square.
It’s truly a game for the ages.
But have you ever played senior Bingo with 25 people over the age of 80 on the medical side of an assisted living facility? If you thought the Blake Lively drama was bad, try fending off Gertrude for a Twix bar. Here’s just what you’re missing.
Senior Rec Rooms Aren’t What You Think
Me, my mom, and my grandma were thick as thieves until we lost her in 2021—three generations of Polish snark not lacking authenticity or attitude—for better or for worse. Gram’s nursing home was half a mile from my house and we would visit a few times a week.
As her dementia got worse the “fun” times were few and far between. But there was a time when if we could plan it correctly, we would be there for the daily activity held in the (loosely-named) recreation room. My grandma was somewhat of a senior Bingo junkie—a hobby I choose to believe she picked up in her younger days as a way to get out of a house filled with six kids—and she always looked forward to Bingo day even in her later years.
And as it turns out, so did we.
Here’s how it often went down.
It was four people to a table, two cards to a person, one bowl of Bingo chips for each player. Wheelchairs were locked and they were ready to roll.
The Rules Are Simple. The Senior Bingo Rivalries Are Not.
This seems innocent enough, but let’s get one thing straight. These people had been through wars, marriages, children, deaths, Depressions, and depressions. They no longer worried about recessions as much as they did if Gertrude next door stole the extra Nutter Butter from their snack tray last Thursday.
They had nothing to lose and they played for keeps. Or rather, they played for candy, which along with popcorn, is the geriatric equivalent of crack.
The activity director—a demure blonde girl with a huge heart and criminally small salary—would call out the numbers like an NFL quarterback calling a play.
“B 14,” the caller would say. “B one four.”
Someone would ask “before what?” while at least two others would mistake “B14” for something either in the “N” column or as a directive to complain about the fact that it was supposed to be beer and popcorn night.
More numbers would be called and silence—save for a few rogue coughs or bodily functions—would blanket the room. This was either due to the fact that concentration was required for placing each chip, or that half of them had forgotten what they were doing.
The next number would be called and Madge, sitting right next to the caller, would ask her what was said. This was repeated after every number called, annoying Gram who would passive-aggressively express this annoyance with a Morse Code of exasperated sighs and Polish cursing.
I would have to remind her that Madge was 100 years old, to which Gram would reply that after 100 years, she should know her way around a damn Bingo card.
Leona would win twice in a row, pretty much guaranteeing evil glares and a public shunning by the women until she repents in some way—throwing a game or throwing a hip—to get herself back in good graces.
I’m convinced that if Only Murders in the Building ever visits a nursing home, it’ll start with a rigged Bingo game and end with Leona’s alibi falling apart under cross-examination.
But remember: There’s chocolate on the line.
Chocolate, Pudding Cups, and the Power of the Senior Bingo Prize
After each triumphant “Bingo!” was called, my mom would distribute that candy by prancing around the room with a tray like an old-fashioned cigarette girl in a bar. (With the exception of June, who would be given a pudding cup if she’s fortunate enough to win, as she was unfortunately on a puree diet.)
The winner would go one of two ways—either directly for the junk food jugular by grabbing their favorite chocolate-covered treats, arthritis and oxygen tank be damned, or the less manic route, pondering this decision as if a Twix was the last thing they would ever eat in their life.
Which, to be fair, just might have been true.
After everyone was told that their cards must be cleared, the next round of play would begin.
Lessons from the Rec Room: Love, Laughter, and Lowering Your Standards
“G 55,” the caller said. “G five five.”
Out of nowhere Richard asked where the beer and popcorn were and where the waitress went.
I remarked that a beer sounded good, at which point Gram not-so-gently reminded me that if I wasn’t so picky, I could be out drinking beer with a nice man like Richard or the maintenance man who hung the shelf in her room last week.
I not-so-gently reminded her that Richard was likely around when Bingo was introduced in 1530 and the maintenance man was actually a very butch woman, to which Gram replied that at this point in my life, I should lower my standards.
“O66,” the caller said. “O six six.”
Oh, but then I would’ve missed all the fun.
And I do miss that fun we all had. But while Gram might be gone, the lessons she taught me live on: Show up, play hard, curse creatively … and never let Leona win twice in a row.
Have you witnessed—or survived—an epic Bingo battle? Share your Bingo war stories—or the priceless family moments you’ll never forget—in the comments.
