Morbid Musings

The other night the HB and I went out on a carne asada run. Earlier in the day we'd spent a few hours out at the pool (I'm still whining about the sunburn - ouchie ouch) and then we napped a bit (i.e. fell asleep really early from sun exhaustion and dozed a few hours until waking wide at 11 p freaking m). Upon awakening, the HB discovered that he was craving carne asada. Particularly carne asada tacos. Upon hearing this I thought I'd crave some meat too (heh). Only I wanted a carne asada burrito. No beans please.

Since we were so in sync in our late night hunger cravings we hit the road in search of food. And who was driving? Me. The one who kept yawning. The one who hadn't yet fully recovered from her early evening nap. I can't nap successfully. Most times naps make me groggy afterwards. But not the HB. They almost always revive him. Lucky bastard.

So while I was groggy at the wheel he was wide awake in the passenger seat, ready to do his 'backseat driving'. Why didn't we switch positions? Well, that would have made too much sense now, wouldn't it? And besides, I was fine after the first twenty minutes. :)

Yes. Twenty minutes. This was no quick jaunt for food. We had to go into a whole other city! Granted, where we live there are a ton of cities crammed right up next to each other, so driving twenty minutes and leaving one city, driving through another, and ending up in a third isn't as weird as it may sound. At least as weird as it would have sounded to pre-Sardine City Living Me.

We drove south towards the HB's old job because he wanted to try the food from these street vendor carts he's always driving past. When we got to the right neighborhood I saw all kinds of vendors set up, one on almost every block, some directly across the street from another, all with their grills cooking at full steam. And the lines for each one were way too long - 'standing in line for at least twenty minutes' long. Judging by the size of the lines we figured the food must be pretty good, but we were hungry, so we went to a little nearby restaurant that the HB knew for a fact was good. The wait there wasn't nearly as long. We got our food (which, for the record, was very yummy and worth the long drive) and headed home.

On the way home, while driving down a street I've driven down numerous times before, the HB pointed out an old folks retirement home. "Now those are nice apartments. I bet the rent is cheap too. Too bad we're not old." A few seconds later, at the end of the block on the opposite side of the street we passed a cemetery.

A cemetery. Less than a block away from a retirement home.

WTF?

Is this common? Is this seen as a convenience for some people? A selling point when looking for a retirement home?

Grandma: This apartment complex has got a pool and a wide screen tv in the club house!
Grandpa: But this one is next door to a cemetery. Think of the money we'll save in hearse fees?

Me? I don't think I'd want to live so close to the place where my dead body will be rotting underground for the next however many years. Or even close to something that resembles the place of dead carcass residences. I'd rather be cremated anyway, but still. I'll grow old somewhere else thank you very much!

What a morbid reminder. Hey there Oldy Oldster! Death is just around the corner!

Sheesh.

I've given this a lot of thought (not really) and I've decided that when I'm retired and flabby and one bus stop away from Senile Town, if I'm not living in a phat condo by the beach, I want to live by a strip club. (As long as its run by someone with enough sense to set up shop far away from a cemetery.)

I want to live by a strip club because the neighborhood would be filled with interesting characters. Wouldn't it? Young and lively characters. Horny characters. That equals good rowdy fun, right? Just what I need in the last few crabby years of my life.

Because while I'll be fun and energetic and full of life when I'm only 10% wrinkle free, I'll still be crabby. It's genetically unavoidable. And living near a strip club will give me plenty of ammo to crab on about.

Because I will be a big time crabber. A big time Griper of All Things.

I've promised the HB that I won't be too too bad a griper. At least not as bad as my grandma currently is. In the last couple of years she's worked her self up to the Big Leagues of Bitching. She bitches about everything and everybody to anyone that will listen. Especially those who will agree with her (which she feels are, by default, her relatives. And those who associate with her relatives - i.e. the HB.) So after being within earshot of an interesting gripe fest, I promised the HB that I wouldn't be as bad as that. "Honestly sweetie, it gets watered down through the generations."

My mom and her sister have vowed to each other to never be as crabby as their mother has become. They've promised to be each other's watch dog and alarm system, to keep each other in line and remind them when they're driving their loved ones crazy.

I can see it now... two little old ladies on the beach...one of them complaining about something mundane... when the other one snaps...

Sister 1: ah quit yer bitchin. you're starting to sound like Mom.
Sister 2: *gasp* am not!
Sister 1: am too!
Sister 2: bitch!

I don't have a lovely sister like that, so I'm going to have to rely on friends. It's either that or make sure the HB doesn't start up a gun collection in his old age. :)