If you’re anything like me, you think about death. In fact, you think about death quite a bit. Too much, maybe, but really, how much is too much? It’s death! We’re all going to deal with it someday. (Am I bringing you down? I don’t mean to bring you down.)

At least once each week, I’ll look at Jeff and say something like, “I feel the wind blowing through my left eyeball right now. I don’t feel any sort of puncture pain, but I definitely feel the hole in my eye and the wind, and my face is sort of throbbing near the bridge of my nose. If I would happen to die tonight, you might want to remember that the wind was blowing through my left eye. That might make a difference during the autopsy.”

Jeff is kind enough to humor me. “Yes. Wind in the left eye and facial throbbing near the bridge of the nose.”

A few nights back, I received an e-mail that shared the news of someone’s death. According to the e-mail, the man died while surrounded by family, and his favorite music was playing when he took his last breath.

Me: Jeff, what music do you want to hear when you die?

Jeff: I don’t know. Maybe Van Morrison’s Astral Weeks?

Me: Excellent. Noted. Now, I need you to start making a mix CD for my death, but don’t burn it until I’m gone. I have a funny feeling the songs will need to change a bit over time.

Jeff: You want me to start an ongoing death CD project for you?

Me: Yep. And you better get started fairly soon, because I’ve got that wind in my eye thing again.

Jeff knows that I want him to remarry when I die. Not right away, but eventually. I’ve told him that he needs to find someone who really gets into hiking and volleyball and swimming, because he’s really missing out on those things with his current wife. I would like for the new wife to be a good cook, and she absolutely must appreciate art and music. She shall not spank, and she must never dispose of my knitted items—especially the lace. The lace is for the girls. I would like for her to be a nurse, because there’s a tiny part of me that wishes I was. I’d really like it if her name were to begin with a vowel, but I can let that one go if need be.

Imagine my excitement a few weeks back when the kind folks at Mother Talk sent a review copy of Debra Adelaide’s The Household Guide to Dying to me. Seriously? This book was written for me. (And for you, because I like to think that we’re sort of on the same page.) The main character, Delia, is an advice columnist in Australia who is nearing forty (just like me!) and dying (I haven’t been to the doctor in three years. I just called to set up an appointment, and they can’t fit me in until August. August!). Delia has two young girls (just like me!), and chickens (this is where we differ, along with that whole dying thing, I suppose. I’ll get back to you in August.).

Let me be honest with you: I have not yet finished the book. And the reason is simple: I don’t want to miss anything. The author has peppered the text with smart literary references and priceless advice column entries and lists for her daughters. (The list that really affected me involved planning a wedding. I couldn’t help but picture Harper and Meredith finding a handwritten list holding lines like “Musicians: string trio (students from college?)”) The wonderful thing? Although the book could have easily plunged into a chattering vat of sentiments commonly found on the inside of bereavement greeting cards, it doesn’t. It takes the high road. The clever road. And I can’t put it down.

Dear Delia,

I am about to become a mother for the first time, and while I’ve read a lot of books on the subject, I would really value any advice you might have. What do you think I should be prepared for the most?

Expectant

Dear Expectant,

You will have been told that exhaustion, lack of time, lack of sleep, lack of a sex life and the inability to focus, to finish a meal, a conversation or even a sentence, are all things you should expect to experience in the first months or years of motherhood. None of these comes close to what you will have in abundance and for the rest of your mothering life: guilt.

Have I mentioned the incredible amount of wisdom found within this book? Am I singing too many praises? Are you sold? Because, really. I want you to read this book and then I want you to come over to my house and I’ll serve you some of the chocolate cake that my family saves for funerals. (Seriously. We call it Death Cake, and it’s been a little over a year since I’ve had a piece (knock on wood).)

Next week, when my book club meets to discuss the book I was supposed to have read since our last meeting, I will be sitting in the corner anxiously waiting for the opportunity to talk about death, how to select a coffin, and how to clean red wine out of a cotton lace tablecloth—just a few of the many things I enjoyed learning as I read The Household Guide to Dying.