He Was A Good Man

I wrote before about the Driveway Math Incident, when #5 covered our driveway (and part of the neighbor’s) with the powers of ten, in chalk.

Once #4 also treated us to a driveway makeover.

We pulled into the driveway and our headlights caught a flash of chalk lines. I always like it when the kids hit the driveway with chalk. They’re so creative. I got out of the car and took a closer look.

I was reminded of that bit in the Matrix where the camera shot pulls back and you suddenly understand that the part you were looking at before was only a tiny, tiny piece, and now you’re seeing how vast the creepiness is, like there’s no end to it.

Our driveway was covered in chalk-drawn tombstones. Covered. Complete with names, dates, those horrid Rest In Peace abbreviations, and epitaphs. It was not near Halloween, and at this time we did not live close to the cemetery. I was entirely baffled as to what #4’s motivation was for such an . . . undertaking.

1973-1999 RIP John Fred Stone. He was a good man.

1880-1945 RIP Bob David Thomas. He liked to ride bikes.

1965-2000 RIP Ryan Scott Jones. He failed third grade.

Et cetera, et cetera, on every available inch of the driveway.

I very briefly tried to get #4 to give up a little of her inspiration for this project. She didn’t have much to say except to confirm that none of these were people she actually knew.

Which I guess is a good thing.

I was struck by the facts in these imaginary people’s lives that she deemed worthy to include in an epitaph. Now that we live across the street from the cemetery and walk our dogs there every day, and I’ve gotten more up close views of what people actually do have put on their tombstones, I think maybe I like her ideas better.

CC and I talk about this often when we’re walking the dogs. On tombstones in our (New Jersey) cemetery, there are several Frank Sinatra quotes, many clichés, and a few sports references. There are likenesses of the deceased rendered in granite, along with images of their favorite past times: guitars, cars, deer, more sports. He’s mainly appalled by all these modern trends, so of course I threaten him with what I’ll do if he goes first.

Me: How about, “I had them bury me upside down so the world can kiss my ass?”

CC: Very funny.

Me: How about, “I Did It My Way?”

CC: Only as long as I’m next to one of the other guys that has that.

Me: “He fought the good fight. . . and lost!”

CC: I’m sorry, did you say something?

Me: All of the New York and New Jersey pro sports team logos in a circle?

CC: {silence}

Me: “He fell into a burning ring of fire?”

CC: I hope you go first.

Me: You know, if I get you an obelisk with six sides these would all fit on it. One for each side.

CC: An obelisk, by definition, has four sides. And I don’t think you had six things anyway.

Me: “He was a loner, he kept to himself.” There, that’s six. I win.

In actuality, I will probably have #4 come up with something along the lines of He made delicious pie or He loved meat. And if I do go first, I can only hope he chooses something that would have made me laugh, and perhaps gives some indication to dog walkers that it’s okay if their dog takes a whiz on my plot.

You should check out Clay Morgan’s post on pop culture tombstones at eduClaytion.

What will they put on your tombstone?

Service

Our minivan was due for an oil change this week. Okay, technically it was due for an oil change like two months ago, but we’ve been busy. Go ahead and judge, I don’t mind.

Wait, are you judging me for the not getting the oil changed part, or the owning a minivan part? Because we actually own two minivans. But I also have a ’66 Mustang convertible named Miss Lucy, so get off my ass.

Anyway, we dropped the minivan off for the oil change and to have them check out the power steering, and discovered it also needed practically everything else except for a new engine, a new transmission, and new headlights.

So I put up my 401k as collateral and they began working on it. It took a little while, which brings us to Friday. CC had to be at work early, #1 was going to an amusement park, and I was on my own to pick up the car.

Meanwhile #3 was down with Swimmers Ear and we were out of pain reliever so I had to be speedy. I decided to multitask, and jogged down to the dealership, which is only about two miles away.

I used to live in Arizona, and I used to run for real there. Outside. It’s hot, but dry, so as long as you don’t outright incinerate, you can breathe.

In New Jersey, it’s very swamplike. In New Jersey, I’m fifteen years older. In New Jersey, I jog/walk indoors on a treadmill. My little trek to the dealership yesterday was a challenge.

This is probably also the time I have to mention that I’m a sweater. It’s gross, I know, but pertinent to the story. I sweat far more than the average ~~woman~~ human when it’s humid or when I exercise. Lucky for all of us, yesterday both of those applied.

I go into the service center and it’s packed. Full of people mainly in business suits trying to get their cars together to take on trips for this holiday weekend. There’s a counter with juices and tea and bagels and toast. I grab a paper towel from the basket to mop my brow and go stand in line for Rick, my friendly service representative.

As I’m standing in his line, I begin sweating in earnest. People are starting to cast disparaging sideways glances at me. I’m kind of dripping on the floor and I’m afraid some of it is audible. I only wait about ninety seconds for Rick but during that time, my sad paper towel has become the size of a cotton ball, is totally soaked and shredding because I keep trying to use it in a futile attempt to not look like a completely inappropriate mutant.

I get up to Rick and he says, “Woah.”

I’m trying to act like nothing unusual is happening. “Um, I ran over here.”

He stares at me for a second and then says, “Oh, literally!”

Rick then politely ignores my little problem while going over all the fabulous expensive things they did to our car and I’m just dying a little inside because I can’t stop sweating. Have you ever tried to stop sweating? Totally ineffective.

By the time he’s done, I look like I’ve just completed a Bikram class. My only saving grace is that I don’t know anyone here. We get to the part where I have to write a check. I had jogged over with this little wristlet thing that could hold only my license, my phone, and a check. I need a pen.

So I ask Rick for a pen. Somehow, there are none on the counter. I can tell he is debating whether to offer me the pen in his pocket or go find another one. After the briefest of hesitations, he says, “Here, you can use mine,” and hands it to me. I joke back, “I’ll try not to sweat on it,” because we both know that isn’t remotely possible. Then I look down.

Rick, god bless him, has handed me his Montblanc.

Now that’s service.

Have you experienced any extraordinary customer service lately?

Remember to enter the inappropriate puggle caption contest. The fabulous prize is your very one, ~~once~~ twice viewed DVD copy of Mega Shark Versus Giant Octopus.

#2, #3, and #5 watched it last night. #5 gave it this stellar review at several points during the action scenes: This movie is awesome!

Word.

They Start Young

When the kids first came to live with us, we lived in an impressively tiny three-bedroom apartment. As small as you can get and still have three areas where there are beds surrounded by walls.

There was one bathroom.

It was so small that when I moved in, I only unpacked my clothes, and not even all of those.

The main area was a living room that ran into the kitchen, all open together, and the kitchen floor was another place for the kids to hang out (because the bedrooms were so small, this was one of exactly three places they could hang out, unless you count the outside, in which case there were four).

One day I was in the kitchen pretending to make dinner and #5 was spinning around on the floor. He was four years old. Suddenly, he started screaming, “Owie, owie owie!!!” and grabbed his head. Because I didn’t see him hit his head and had been a parent for about nine days, I knew that he was having either a stroke or an aneurysm and would be dead within seconds, and I bent down and grabbed him in a blind panic.

“What’s wrong buddy? Can you wiggle your toes? Blink if you can hear me!”

He stopped crying long enough to reach up and grab the zipper on my sweater. Let me clarify that: he grabbed the zipper of my cardigan, underneath which I was wearing nothing (and I mean nothing) and yanked it down, and thus, wide open.

Then he snickered.

And that’s the story of how #5 faked a head injury in order to look down (around? through?) my shirt.

He went on to successfully perform variations of this trick on my mother, one of his cousins, several well-endowed babysitters, and probably a few people I don’t know about.

Here’s another post about him getting a head start: Confidence Is Everything.