Memo to self.

This morning, before I left for work, I made this note to myself on a Post-It of things I wanted to talk about, and stuck it on my wallet:

- “Don’t miss Puddle of Mudd”
- Funeral
- Cardinal player’s dad suing everyone on Earth

Confusing, huh. Let’s break it down:

1) This morning, when I checked my email, there was an urgent notice from Ticketmaster that said “Quick! Buy tickets now! Don’t miss Puddle of Mudd!”

Oh, I assure you, Ticketmaster, I will be missing Puddle of Mudd.

2) Steve and I had to go to a wake this past Friday night, and a funeral Saturday morning, for a family member that Steve hasn’t seen since he was about 9. I won’t get into many details, out of respect for the man’s sister, Steve’s aunt, who I know and love and would probably have move in with us when she’s old and can’t live alone. Maybe I'll keep her in a bed with my parents and Steve's parents, like Grandpa Joe & Co. in the original "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory".



But I will say these few things about these current family events:

a) Guess who had to be a pall bearer? My man. Like always. There doesn’t seem to be one family death that we’ve gone through where he hasn’t been one. He could make a blanket out of all the white gloves he’s taken off and placed on top of caskets at gravesites (Catholics, you know – the funeral isn’t over until that casket is in the ground).

The kicker with this particular family death? The deceased weighed 400 pounds and some change. My poor, poor pall bearer of a boyfriend. At least none of his uncles were pall bearers with him, because, according to Steve, “they fake it.”

b) Know what footwear is obviously not made for graveyards? Heels. Just an observation. I almost sunk into about 4 graves. Next funeral? Flats.

c) I may have flicked off a cab that cut us off while we were in the funeral procession. It may not have been a nonchalant flipping of the bird, either. Maybe more from the “roll the window down, stick the bird way out of the car, and shout something along the lines of ‘Yoo Hoo! I’m flicking you off, you f’n bastard!!” school of Middle Finger-ing.

Good news: according to family member accounts, I guess the deceased would have gotten a real kick out of that. The cars in the procession behind us sure did.

3) Oh yeah, my final thing, about Cardinals player Josh Hancock’s father suing everyone in the world. This rant is courtesy of my Main Man, who religiously reads Sports Illustrated online and showed me the article. I don’t read Sport Illustrated online, because a) I take very little interest in sports (well, non-Chicago teams I guess is more accurate), and b) I can’t stand the total ADHD format of the website – there are about 9,000 different things to look at ALL AT THE SAME TIME. MLB! NFL! NBA! NHL! Nascar! And that's just the actual sports, we're not even mentioning fantasy ones. The site makes me want to take a nap.

But I digress.

Come on, Dean. It's not enough for you that your son was found with two times the legal limit of alcohol in his system, had a wee bit of weed in the car, AND was on his cell phone when he crashed? So you sue the restaurant he came from (including the server and hostess, separately), the tow truck he plowed into, AND the owner of the Geo Prism for, allegedly, "letting his car reach the point where it stalled on the highway?” What? Come again? I’m not following, you....Finger Pointer, you. You're son's gone. No amount of money from innocent people will change that.

What a silly legal system we have, that he was even allowed to file a lawsuit like that.

****

In other news, I’ve been watching my boss’ dog since last Friday. She’s a Yorkie, and she’s crazy. But in a cute way.



That's us, sleeping in on Memorial Day. My actual bedroom has been annexed as a Puppy-Free Zone, to give Babe a bit of a respite from the Yorkie constantly staring at her (she’s never seen a cat before). This is how much Babe cares about dogs in general:



So, yeah, Babe's not that fazed by the little interloper. Who, by the way, woke us up at 4:30 a.m. today, all set to begin her day. My day doesn't begin until, at the absolute earliest, seven. Mojo and Babe were equally as appalled. Then they curled up in a ball and went back to sleep, while Steve and I hauled our exhausted selves to work.

It’s going to be a long trudge towards vacation week.....