Who says funerals are dull?

My dads family is from Montreal, Canada, eh? My BaBa and DziDzi, Ukrainian for grandma and grandpa, spoke Russian, Polish, little English, but mostly Ukranian. My dad did not share this language with my sister or myself, so when my Baba died, we hiked our cookies back to Montreal for the funeral. All my dads family was still there at the time and I guess it was a little inconvenient for them to bring all that pomp and circumstance down to the South, but whatever! Now, I will tell you that at the time, this was the first real funeral we had been to. It was open casket, naturally, and my sister and I kept poking and getting up close to Baba waiting for her to sit up and say "gotcha!" It never happened, but who's to say it couldn't have? My Baba was a beautiful woman. She was very fair, blonde, with amazing blue eyes. And she used to wear a turban, you know before turbans were affiliated with terrorists. After the viewing, so gross I cannot even tell you, this is why I am to be cremated. I don't want my grandkids waiting for me to sit up or grab them. Nightmares I tell you.
Anyway, we walk across the street to this very grand Orthodox Ukranian church. Very ornate, very beautiful and did I mention it was Ukranian? So, since us Americans didn't know Ukranian we were fairly lost. I would look to my cousins for when to stand, when to pray, when to not laugh. It's customary that when the Grandmother passes, all the granddaughters stand by the casket and hold a candle, not a fake candle, but real live fire. I don't know if I have mentioned this before, but I have the attention span of a gnat. Maybe even less. In meetings, I am counting tiles on the ceiling within 5 minutes.

Ok, so here we all are. My cousin Jennifer, my sister Debra, my cousin Darlene and Moi. Now, mind you I don't speak Ukranian, there is incense being thrown around, I'm trying to occupy my time and not disappoint my dad with my fidgeting. I'm looking at the glass windows, the decorations, very gold I might add, when the next thing I know, my sister is beating my head. Turns out while I was admiring the beauty of the church, I had let my hair too close to the candle and voila, I'm doing my best Michael Jackson impression.