A map of my favourite dead person spot

I went walking with Momma on Sunday.  I have a favourite walking place in Hometown, with gorgeous paths through the woods on the lake.  I love it.  It makes me happy and helps me find peace and it is therefore where you all should throw me when I die.  My ashes, I mean.  Not my body.  That would be weird. 




My favourite spot


I told Momma she'll have to show Hubby where my favourite spot is - you know, for my ashes.  But then it occurred to me that I kinda hope Momma's not still alive when I die.  I mean, OF COURSE I DO, but if I die before her..., I think that's somehow worse, isn't it? 

Although, come to think of it, that'd be WAY easier on me emotionally, so maybe it is a good idea for me to kick the bucket ahead of time.  

In any case, I now think it's important to draw a map of my favourite spot so you will all know where I want to be laid to "rest".  (Not that it really matters.  I'll be dead.  I won't know.)

When you throw me over the edge, you should also be sure to bring some birdseed.  I love feeding the birds at my Happy Place.  Maybe just try not to mix up the ashes and the birdseed.  I don't want birds eating me, if it can be avoided.  (But again, maybe I'll never know.  But maybe I will.  Maybe I'll haunt and follow you all everywhere you go, pointing out all your mistakes and laughing at you.  That sounds like me.)

Me feeding a bird.  Like Mary Poppins. 

If you need any further instructions, you should probably contact Hubby.  Or Momma. Even if she's already dead.  She's a little psychic or something, so I think if you called her, she'd probably just show up.  Watch out though - she's known to sneak up on people. And she's startling when she's alive, so dead? She'd be a friggin heart stopper. 

I had a run-in with a grumpy old bitch in the grocery store

On Saturday morning Hubby and I were planning to leave for Hometown at about 10am.  We got up in time, did some laundry, wrapped some gifts, packed some bags, and tried to set up the auto-feeder for the kitties. 

Well, of course, the effing thing wasn't working.  We tried changing the battery, but it was apparently the motor that had failed.  So Hubby took off to Canadian Tire, Walmart, and Petsmart looking for a replacement, leaving time for me to hit the grocery store to pick up pancake fixins for brunch at Momma's on Sunday morning. 

Who's been to the grocery store on Easter Saturday? Anyone? Bueller?  If you have, you know what an asshole it is.  The trick is, you have to go in knowing what to expect, and to just ignore everyone.  But I was already low on tolerance and high on attitude, so a run-in was entirely bound to happen. 

After angrily driving around the crammed parking lot, with no lack of honking and cursing, I finally found a decent spot and rushed into the store.  I was on a mission:  pancake mix and frozen berries.  That was it.  Two targets; one large friggin obstacle course. 

It started out well.  I swooped in between all the idiots who don't know which door to enter or exit, deaked in between everyone in the produce section, slid between carts and aisles, with my eye on the PRIZE. 

Once I got to the cash registers I realized how bad this was going to be.  It was PACKED.  People and carts and baskets loaded up and jamming the whole front half of the store.  No discernible lines, all one giant jumble of morons lingering and getting in my way. 

I managed to get over to the far right side, with my two items in hand, ready to line up in the express lane. 

Now.  I may have been low on tolerance and high on attitude, but I was holding it together.  It was Easter Saturday.  Everyone was miserable.  I can be patient. 

So I stood in the pool of people waiting for the express cashiers, and that's when it happened.  The poor old bat.  She had no idea what she was in for. 

Grumpy Old Lady: Excuse me.  Excuse me, which line are you in?

Me: Uh, whichever one opens up first. 

You see, there were a lot of people milling about, and I much prefer to just let people who were there before me go ahead, relying on others' honesty and logic to ensure that I will get to pay as soon as my turn comes up.  I'm a big fan of the "first come, first served" approach when the physical set-up of the registers appropriately allows for it.  It's CIVILIZED, people. 

Grumpy Old Lady:  Well, I think you're going to have to pick a line.

Me: Um, no.  I thought we could just rely on the honour system to ensure that people who were here first will get to pay first.  Maybe YOU should pick a line.  (As I let another gal in front of me go, BECAUSE SHE WAS THERE FIRST.)

Grumpy Old Lady:  Well, that guy just butt in line, so...

Me: So go talk to that guy. 

Grumpy Old Bitch:  You have to pick a line. 

Me:  I'm not in a rush.  I don't know about you...

Bitch:  Well, I am in a rush. 

Me:  Then maybe you shouldn't have come here on Easter Saturday. 

Bitch:  ...

Me:  And Happy Easter! 

I think she wandered off and picked a line.  Simple solution, really.  Nutjob.