It won’t be necessary to buy me a grave plot when I die. Simply lay me out somewhere nice, and cover me with all the gems I’ve purchased but never set. I’ve already accumulated a hefty stash, and if my ultimate demise occurs at around 95 years old (the women in my family being quite long-lived), I should have enough loose gems by then to create a burial mound similar to the Bartlow Hills Roman burial mounds in Cambridgeshire, England. You know: a small hill, big enough that one is out of breath when one reaches the top.
However, with my mother’s help, I could potentially have enough gems for a mound like this one, in Ireland:
I like the wall. The wall is a nice touch, and if I’ve accumulated enough loose gems to create this size burial mound then I deserve a wall. The public deserves a wall. If you wanted to make the wall out of gold, that would be appropriate. My final resting place would then be, in essence, the world’s largest gem setting. I plan to leave behind many heart-broken lovers, and I think they would be happy to help with the financing of the gold wall. They will miss me, and it will help them in their time of grief to have a project to keep them busy.
My recent visit with my Mom, who is not a spy, yielded more than warm and fuzzy holiday memories. It yielded an awesome pair of boots. It yielded several items from my favorite shopping venue: Mom’s Closet (“take it, Babe. You’ll wear it more than I will. And I have another just like it in The Netherlands.”) But boots and clothes can’t be used in my burial mound, so we won’t talk about them. And it yielded this:
These are the most recent cast-offs, the extras. This is the stuff she doesn’t wear anymore (“Babe, I haven’t worn it in years. Years!”), not to be confused with the broken jewelry and orphan earrings I’ve received in the past. This load contains the second claddagh ring she’s given me. This is only a portion of what she tried to give me.
I’ve received piles like this one before, but this one is particularly gem-loaded. Other than the five stones on the right, these are all tourmaline, because one can never have enough tourmaline, can one? My mother feels responsible for singlehandedly supporting Maine’s economy, and so when she is there she purchases every tourmaline available, even if it isn’t a tourmaline from Maine.
Some of this will go back to her, but Vaka-fied. I can’t bear to watch her part with the gorgeous rectangular Paraíba tourmaline, and so I’ve talked her into letting me reset that as a pendant. It’ll be beautiful up by her face, as her eyes are almost the same color. The deep red oval garnet ring was a gift from a friend, but the 22k setting is too dinner-ringy for my Mom’s taste. I’ll work that bit of gorgeousness into something more Molly-esque, something she can wear everyday. My Mom makes a habit of destroying hollow gold bangle bracelets, and so when I melt down the enormous collar necklace I’ll make a solid skinny bangle, or two, for her. Recycle, recycle, recycle.
So, my gem-hoarding ways? It’s obviously my mother’s fault; a genetic trait I’m unable to fight. I’m the Bling Padawan to her Bling Jedi Master. I’m the novice bling nun to her Mother Theresa of Bling.
When she dies we’ll make her ashes into a diamond, and I might even let her share my burial mound.