Morbid Thoughts and Dead People

My parents have recently started saying things to me like, "If something happens to me, my will is here..." or "I don't want an expensive funeral. If you can't get me cremated for under $3000, just put me in the burn barrel..." or "I've put you down as the beneficiary on (insert name of policy or fund)."

My parents are young. Here is a list of celebrities older than my parents:

Oprah
Howard Stern
Bruce Willis
Denzel Washington
Dennis Quaid
Kim Basinger.

My point here is that my parents are still in their prime. I don't need to hear about their death plans. Rationally, I realize it is very responsible for them to be so prepared. Psychologically, it is too soon.

Though, at the same time, I am more concerned about MY post-death arrangements for my turtle who I'm pretty sure will out live me. Does anyone want my turtle after I die?

The older you get, the more you think about death. Right? Well the older I get, the more I think about serial killers.

Serial Killers.

I watch Criminal Minds EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. This has trained me to be uniquely qualified to assume that every weirdo I see is a murderer.

Case in point.

Two days ago, I pulled up to the office and my normal parking space was taken. I had to park in front of a shady looking house. As soon as I got out of the car, a man pulled up in his truck (it had a canopy, all the better for hiding bodies) and got out with his bag of Burger King (the nutritional go-to of stabbers, shooters, and stranglers). He was wearing sweatpants (the uniform of psychotics) and had a shaggy goatee (murders are genetically programmed to grow mullets on their face).

I went to work sort of perturbed to know I had to be careful about parking near his house and sort of excited that all my research (television watching) had finally paid off. This was doubly confirmed when, without prompting from me, MW randomly told me the same man often has bottles and bottles of empty bleach sitting on his porch.

Bleach. The official sponsor of serial killers.

Yesterday I came out of my house and found a body in the driveway. Luckily, not a dead body. Just a disoriented and ill hobo who had wandered up the driveway to pet the garbage cans. During his tactile affair with the trash bin, he passed out. I called 911. After a time, they took him away.

In the three seconds it took me to realize he was not dead, I reacted very calmly to just the idea of a dead stranger on the property. This is probably because I've seen dead people before. I've done post-mortem care on nursing home patients. I've watched them get zipped up in body bags, wheeled into a hearse and taken away by the mortician.

I was 18 the first time I saw a dead person not related to me. Right after I graduated high school, I took a two week course and was certified as a nurse's assistant. I worked at a nursing home the summer before my first year of college and would go on to work at the same nursing home every summer and school break for the next four years.

In my first week as a CNA, one of the residents passed away. It was our responsibility to clean up the deceased and prepare them to be moved to the funeral homes. There were two other CNA's working that night and one of them outright refused to do the post-mortem care. The third CNA was pretty nervous.

We cautiously approached the deceased patient and worked through the to-do list. It is a short list. Essentially, administer a sponge-bath, wrap them in a sheet, collect their important personal belongings (glasses, teeth, jewelry, watch, etc).

That night, as we rolled the patient over to her side, the last of the air from her lungs released in an audible woosh.

My partner in care immediately let go of the body and left the room, leaving me to go it alone.

So I guess you could say I became desensitized to death at an early age.

It is weird to hear my parents talk about their own mortality when I've yet to get my first grey hair, when I'm still clueless about under-eye cream, and AARP is a distant need.

Until my parents look like Clint Eastwood or Betty White, I'm not going to be too concerned about their post-mortem care.

But just to be safe, maybe I should start stockpiling bleach.

I'm working in the midst of the Great American Work Novel

Every day, when I arrive and depart work, I walk by a plus-sized consignment store. In the window there is a mannequin and the mannequin is missing a hand. I tried to take a picture but the glare on the window didn't accurately depict how creepy it is. I'm sure this second-hand shop got this mannequin second-hand. Last night I had two deeply disturbing dreams and one of them centered around this hand-less mannequin. Today when I walked by the store on my way home from work, I dropped my keys and as I bent over to pick them up, I could see straight up the sleeve on the hand-less arm. I think I will see that stub in my dreams for years to come. Here is the shop's sign. She has this picture above the door and on a sandwich board down the street.

we put Mom on the roof, just like Romney's dog

  

Every day I am sort of embarrassed for this woman. I went in the store once because I could spy rather large looking shoes from the door, and since I wear a a very manly and hard to find size 11, I never pass up the opportunity to look for cute shoes. Having met her, I can say she is very nice, but that sign is ridiculous.

I'm also convinced that a man who has an office in our building is also living in the building. He is always there. MW saw him getting out of a van. Our office shares a wall with the floor's bathroom. He has a very distinctive sounding walk and today I went to use the bathroom shortly after he left the bathroom himself. I found a razor and washcloth on the counter. A few minutes after I left the bathroom, I could hear him walk back to the bathroom and then back to his office. My curiosity got the better of me and I went and checked the bathroom The razor and cloth were gone.

The office building is a mixed bag of crazy. There is an insurance company, a kung-fu studio, the aforementioned thrift store, a guitar-lessons business, an Eastern-medicine massage parlor, a PTSD therapist, and a handful of other offices that are occupied but as of yet anonymous in their dealings.

Here is the scary part, the man I think is living in his office is the PTSD therapist. I would describe him as a cowboy Ronald Reagan meets Matt Foley meets Clint Eastwood in that he looks sort of like a cowboy Regan with the enthusiasm of Matt Foley and the high-wasted pants, furrowed brow, and scowl of Eastwood.

There is also a man who brings his two basset hounds. I'm sure he probably has a real job, but every now and then when I walk by his office, I swear he is in there playing World of Warcraft. I like to imagine he told his wife he works in an office but is really making money off Second Life.

Clearly I will be writing a novel or a sitcom or a reality show about this one day.

In the mean time, I'm going to find out what is behind all those other closed doors.

I better copyright this sh*t.

 I have a lot of awesome ideas on a regular basis.

Here is a list of ideas I've had that were NOT so great.

1. Made a four-minute video of a cat.
2. Left Mondo in a running car.
3. Ran over a plastic shopping bag.
4. Took the bus.  Oh yeah, took the bus.  I don't miss bussing to work.

Now that you've reviewed some of my terrible decisions, you will be properly prepared to recognize two awesome ideas I've had as of late.

yes, both of them are about dogs.

Roll your eyes.

Look at a picture of Mondo.

I am adorable. Now give me a treat.

See how cute he is? Wouldn't you become overly interested in dogs if you had a Mondo Fattington Hoegenheimer?

Now, back to business.

Idea #1

A phone app that allows you to take a picture of a dog and then the app will tell you what kind of dog you are looking at and all sorts of facts about the dog. The facts part I don't really care about, I mostly want to know what sort of an ugly mutt I'm looking at when I encounter dogs on Mt. Tabor.

This one is kind of cute.

  
Idea #2

A match.com for dogs! Now there are some websites like this one and and this one for single humans that have pets and are looking for a love match with someone else that also loves pets.

And there is this British site for dogs that is sort of close to what I'm talking about.

I want there to be a website that allows you to upload your dogs information, likes, dislikes, etc and then you can match to other dogs in the area so they can fall in love.

I'm sort of serious about Idea #2. But mostly, Idea #2 came about when my boss and I were giggling over the possibility of her dog Lila and my dog Mondo being online loves, sending each other letters and photos.


I think these are awesome ideas. Not so awesome that I'm willing to invest any money in making them happen, but awesome enough ideas that I would download a free app on to my phone if one so existed.

So if someone could get on with making these two ideas happen, I'd really appreciate it.

I'm much to busy being Bry Hoeg.

Pancakes and Bombs: Suburban Living 101

I believe I've told you a time or two that I do not like pancakes. Turn your head to the right and there, in the margin of this website, you will see "pancakes" on the list of things I hate.

They are gross, the devil's food I like to say. And maple syrup is even worse. Don't get me started. They are little sponge pads covered in poison.

While I do not like pancakes, I am aware that most people do, and I'm aware that "most people" are actually children and Marshall Eriksen.

So when little IK, age three, asked me to make him pancakes on Friday morning, of course I said no.

I really did. Mostly because he was supposed to be going to school within the half-hour. Then I tried to tell him pancakes are gross.

"Will you make me pancakes?"
No.
IK looks genuinely confused for a moment. Did she really just say no?
I think pancakes are gross. 
"Why?"
They are mooshy and taste yucky. You should eat an egg-in-the-hole instead.
"No, I want pancakes."
Well go ask your mama, I'm not making any.

I went to my room and was reading a bit when I realized I could still hear IK mucking about which meant he had not left for school and also meant that MK was probably unaware she was about to be late for work.

After a brief conference, it was decided that I would take IK to school and MK would go to work.

IK was a bit fussy about this change of events. Well, it looks like I have time to make you pancakes, I told him, immediately cutting off the fuss.

I survived making the pancakes. I didn't gag as I mixed the batter and it didn't make me gurggly in the tum-tum to pour the syrup on top (especially since I piled a bunch of strawberries on top).

not the pancakes I made, but I think pancakes all look and smell the same...like death

Immediately after the pancakes were eaten, we got a knock on the door. It was the cops. I kid you not. They were there to arrest me for making pancakes.

Or they were there to tell me there was a maybe/sort of/probably/we are not sure, but just in case, BOMB across the street.

"Get thee to the furthest corner of the house until we knock again," said the Victorian Portland Police Officer (or not).

Was it the pancakes? I wanted to ask. But instead I said, Oh my gosh! Okay! Thanks. 

Like a crazer, I grabbed IK and shouted for AM to meet us in the back bedroom. Cut to AM and I cooped up with a three-year-old and three dogs for more than an hour.


(Somewhere in there is an Anne Frank joke I won't make because that would be in poor taste.)

How neither of us lost our minds, I do not know.

I can only conclude that making pancakes could possibly piss someone off and force them to plant a bomb in front of the house. I completely understand, pancakes are very irritating. And though the suspected bomb turned out to be nothing, it served as a reminder that we are living in tumultuous times and sometimes the terrorists win.  The solution is to never, ever, ever make pancakes again.

Later that night, after picking him up from school, I asked IK what he wanted for dinner.

"Pancakes," he said.